The Human Stain
by Subtext
Summary: If you can't be a good example, you have the obligation to be a horrible warning. Set two months after the events in Mission City, a new threat arises that may band Autobots and Decepticons together. -2007 Movieverse, Dark, SmokescreenxOC eventually-
1. Chapter 1

**The Human Stain: Chapter 1**

_A man cannot free himself from the past more easily than he can from his own body. -**André Maurois**_

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**1997 -**_**Santa Cruz, CA**_

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"_Catch it, Claire!_"

Streaked blonde hair blew over the shoulder of a tan teenager, just before she leapt up and caught the whirling red disc as it came whizzing over her head.

"Got it!" the girl crowed triumphantly, sinking back into the sand upon landing. She held the frisbee above her head like a trophy before pumping her arm up and down. A salty breeze stirred wisps of lighter hair against her darker forehead, creating an even greater contrast. The girl was, in essence, the perfect vision of a Californian girl. She was taller than most, standing at 5'8" with the build of an athlete. She wore a white tank top and frayed denim shorts that had once been jeans before the owner severed the pant legs with scissors. A pink peace symbol had been haphazardly sewn into the back left pocket, and the right was adorned with a small fabric rainbow held together with two small safety pins.

The initial voice belonged to a shorter brunette, who was facing Claire but ten feet away. She wore shorts as well, but these were made of a canvas material. Her top consisted of nothing but a yellow bikini top. Both girls wore two-pieces beneath their clothes, but the brunette had opted to take her shirt off in the Land Rover they had arrived in. Like Claire, she was a sun-worshipper but tanned much darker. Claire's friend knitted her brow, crouching lower to the beach to prepare for the return of the frisbee. "Throw it back!" she cried, cupping one hand to the side of her face to make herself louder.

"Jeez, Jen!" Claire scowled, put off from her victory dance momentarily. "Give me a sec here. I rarely catch this thing."

"That's why we're here."

Claire stuck a tongue out at the other teenager before angling her arm back and letting the frisbee take flight once more. She aimed a bit higher than Jen could catch, sending the flat pan sailing high over the girl's head.

"Oh, c'mon! What was that!?" cursed the dark-haired girl, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "You did that on purpose!"

Claire watched bemusedly as her friend trotted off after the piece of rotating plastic, and dusted off the palms of hands against the sides of her shorts. A few granules of encrusted sand broke off on contact, falling below to rejoin the rest of their kin. The ocean was a constant, dull din off to her left and the chimes and cries of the boardwalk were to her right. Jen's cries of indignation drew her attention forward again, and she grinned.

Squinting against the bright daylight, Claire laughed as a spotted dog drove past her, kicking up beach in his wake. Jen soon followed, shooting Claire a daggered glare as she ran past. "Help me! That mutt got it!"

Giggling despite herself, the sixteen-year-old took third place in the race after the animal. The trio zigzagged between sunbathers, families with small children, and others enjoying the bright afternoon by the beach.

Claire was so caught up in the chase that she nearly ran right into a boy with hazel hair and brown eyes. He had appeared to come from the boardwalk, and held a chocolate ice cream cone in one hand. His wavy hair slung over one eye, and he was dressed casually in jeans, sneakers and a brown shirt with frayed sleeves. The front was emblazoned with the Nike logo in white. "Claire!"

"Wha…? Huh…?" Momentarily taken aback, Claire threw a harried glance over her shoulder. Her body temporarily followed the direction of her head once she recognized the other teenager. "Hey, Simon!"

"Having trouble?" He motioned after Jen and the departing dog.

"Just a bit," she conceded, smiling so that the corners of her eyes crinkled with the effect. Her heart began to speed up, and it had nothing to do with her short sprint.

"Need help?" Simon leaned closer, and Claire momentarily lost concentration on what she had been doing.

"He's heading for the water!" shrieked Jen.

That was enough to tear her focus away from the boy, of whom she had developed a crush for the past summer. "Uh, no, we got this one! Thanks!" She started to turn away.

"Sure?" she heard behind her, his voice slightly softer than before.

She hesitated, and then forced a grin back across her features as she gave him a quick wave over her shoulder. "I swear." Simon Walters was a good-natured (not to mention handsome) guy, well known and liked at Santa Cruz High School, and nearly every girl within two grades of him had a horrible appreciation for him. It was too bad that the only thing she could appreciate now was her own bad luck when she realized how close she could have been to striking up a conversation with him had she not a more pending issue to tend to.

"See you around…" he trailed uncertainly.

"See ya!" One last, apologetic look was thrown Simon's way, begging him to understand. Driven forward by more than her need to get her frisbee back, Claire ran on with the urge to separate herself from her own embarrassment. The more distance she put between herself and him, the less she felt.

It didn't take long to catch up with Jen, and soon Claire pulled up so they were running neck and neck. Claire matched her best friend stride for stride but kept pulling further ahead by virtue of her longer legs.

"I'll get him!" she shouted back over the wind whistling past her ears.

The dog remained teasingly ahead of the two, scampering at full speed only to veer sideways before coming to a halt and wagging his tail spastically back and forth. As soon as they gained ground, the animal would take off like a shot again. The frisbee was tucked firmly between his front eye teeth, and it was obvious it was all a game to the creature. Eyes bright and panting, the dog reached an area where a large outcropping of rocks signaled the end of the beach. Without anywhere to go, it had indeed bolted for the water.

"Is that thing suicidal!?" yelled Jen, her voice coming from somewhere behind Claire. They were both gasping for breath, and this haggard quality was imparted upon Jen's voice.

Her own sides heaving from the sprint, Claire skidded to a stop just where the surf slicked her toes before receding back into the ocean. The waves were not high that day – it was still very early in the afternoon. The dog had since leapt into the water, paddling for all his life against each roll of the surf. The frisbee only proved to make the dog work harder to keep his prize, and there were several times when the poor creature was rolled under by the loll of the waves.

"Fuck. Now what?" By then Jen had also ceased all forward movements, and was standing by her friend. She bent over, bracing her hands against her upper thighs as she took several ragged breaths. Her next words came unevenly as she tried to regain her composure. "Damn dog. If you hadn't thrown the frisbee over my head this wouldn't of happened. He caught it before I did. Where is this little shit's owner?" Jen glanced questioningly over at Claire, but then gasped, "What are you doing!?"

Claire was undressing. Not completely, of course – she merely shirked off her tank top and was shimmying out of her makeshift shorts. "Going to get our frisbee," she responded, as if it were a stupid question. When the shorts hit the sand she stood up again, wearing nothing but her red bikini. She flashed a smarmy smile at Jen. "It's not coming back by itself, is it?"

"You're nuts. You're absolutely friggin' nuts." Jen said, whipping an accusing finger at the rocky earth to their left. "There are rocks under that water. All it will take is a little bit of undertow and you're done."

Claire waved Jen off with a dismissive gesture of her right hand. She pointed out to the dog, which was becoming a more distant dot where the ocean met the sky. "He's still alive and kickin'."

Jen placed a hand on her forehead, creating a visor against the sun as she squinted out at the dog. "Uh… Claire... I think he's having trouble."

"He is?" Claire imitated Jen's gesture, and both stared out as they watched the canine paddle furiously against the ocean. He was past the waves breaking against the shore, and he was now barking whenever it was possible to get his head completely above water. The frisbee was no longer in his mouth, but by then it was no longer a concern to either the animal or the humans.

"Ohmygod," Jen gushed, her voice holding an edge of distress, "I think he's going to drown."

Before she even thought about her actions, Claire was racing into the surf. Jen made a last minute dodge to grab the girl by her elbow, but it was to no avail. Jen missed, faltered, and lost her balance before falling to the wet sand. "CLAIRE!" she screamed, "NO!"

Barely registering Jen's cries, Claire hit the ocean like an offensive lineman. The waves drove into her chest, nearly knocking the air from her, but she struggled past them. She wasn't thinking about the consequences; indeed she never really did. The only thing she could see was the dog ahead of her, his white-and-black head bobbing up and down on the ocean like a frantic bobber. She was perhaps twenty feet from him, but the distance seemed much greater. A wave rose over her head, dipping her under, and she came up a second later coughing and sputtering. The bottom was indeed littered with rocky protrusions, and it pained her enough that she angled her body to swim rather then stand.

She was already fatigued from the run down the beach, which caused her to falter while swimming. The blood pounded in her ears as she started taking long strokes, and dimly she heard Jen screaming for her back on the beach. Grimly, she smiled inwardly. A stalwart friend, Jennifer Kingston still held her own survival paramount to anything else. Claire knew she would not follow.

The dog was by then yelping and paddling in circles, struggling to simply keep himself surfaced. He was completely soaked through, and his floppy ears seemed weighed down even further by the water. She closed the distance between them, her sights kept on her goal. "Hangon...!" she gurgled as a rush of water hit her forehead and drowned out the rest of her sentence. More seconds passed, and she could no longer here Jen calling for her on land. Water bubbled in her eardrums, but she kept her front crawl moving at a determined pace.

She reached the dog, and in doing so she was nearly submerged. The dog was a medium-sized animal with short fur. He had no distinct breeding, which led Claire to believe he was really what Jen had called him – a mutt. There was a faded fabric collar around his neck, indicating he belonged to someone. Her first mistake was grabbing this upon reaching him – in one quick second fueled by his instinct to stay alive, the dog attempted to clamber upon her shoulders. This effectively submerged her while the dog's claws cut up her shoulders as he tried in vain to find footing from above. Forcing herself to surface sideways of the dog, she began to sputter up what felt like a gallon of water from her lungs.

Oh, god, she could barely breathe!

The dog took another lunge at her, yelping in panic. He was like any drowning creature that had lost their wits – he saw a small bit of salvation and tried to cling to it.

"Calm down, calm down!" Claire tried to grab him by his collar again, but once again he put his front paws on her shoulders. This time she was more prepared to receive him and stayed afloat. His back legs kicked and scraped welts into her bare stomach below the waterline, and she yelped herself in pain. By that time she had begun to notice just how close they both were to the needle-like rocks framing the sandy beach. "Shit," she swore, attempting to manhandle the dog while directing them away from a gory end.

The dog was whimpering, still kicking furiously and attempting to climb onto her shoulders to keep himself further above the water. How the dog ever had the bravery to enter the water with the frisbee in the first place was beyond her, for all the cowardice he showed now. Both of their legs were working in overtime, and Claire's pulse was speeding throughout her body as her urge to survive overcame any other thought. An unexpected wave rolled them under, and she surfaced, gasping, with her bangs in her face. Briefly removing her hand from the dog's wet pelt, she whipped the hair out of her eyes and struggled to see through a line of blurry vision. Closer to the rocks, damn.

The next thing happened so swiftly it took her three seconds after the fact to register it actually **had** happened.

The dog chose then to take his hind leg and drive the claws on that paw deep into her stomach, which opened up a rather large welt above the smaller welts he had already inflicted upon her. Blood filled the space between them, and so did another wave – this one larger than the others. The burst of pain and water caused her to release the dog as she let out an anguished cry, and she barely heard the dog give out a sound somewhere between a groan and a high-pitched mewl.

Unsure about the dog's fate and no longer fixated to it, Claire doubled over in agony. The ocean rolled over her body, causing her to somersault underwater. She was tumbling towards the rocks, only feet away, when something caught her by a flailing leg and pressed down.

For one fleeting, foolish moment she thought of rescue.

She felt something crunch, twist, and then she was being shook violently underwater.

Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, and the salt laced bright lines of pain through her body.

Claire's left leg was on fire – she was certain of it. The conflagration spread up her limb and into her head, flooding her dark vision with red and bright motes of light. Vaguely, she realized she was losing consciousness underwater. The thing on her leg was dragging her deeper, down and further away from the rocks.

Then, just as soon as it had grabbed her, it let go.

The last thing she recalled was the sensation of floating upwards, towards a bright light. It filled her vision, pushing away the crimson clouds and pulsating stars, causing them instead to burst out into a pure whiteness. Sound was beginning to fill her ears, but it was like listening down a long, thin tube. Someone was calling her name.

"_Claaaiiiiirrrrreee…."_

She lost consciousness.

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_**2007 - **__**Boulder City, Nevada**_

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_**MEEP.**_

_**MEEP.**_

_**MEEP.**_

"SHUT UP!" Claire rolled over and whacked the 'snooze' button with the hand closest to the alarm. There was a resounding 'thwack' that knocked the digital clock off the nightstand, before it hit the floor upside-down.

Sighing, the woman shifted and lifted herself upright. She settled herself on the edge of her bed, bending down long enough to pick up the alarm and set it upon the nightstand again, just a bit further back from the edge than it had been. It was always good to preempt tomorrow morning, after all. Noting the time read 6:00 a.m. in large digital numerals, she mused over the fact that she hadn't had to hit 'snooze' four or five times in a row – she had woken up at the first alarm for once.

Yawning, the 26-year-old pushed some tousled blonde hair out her face and sat herself upright for another day. It was Monday, the weekend was over, and it was time for work. She scanned her tidy bedroom, willing the last eddies of sleep from her mind before finding what she sought.

Finally, her eyes rested upon it – of course, it was in the place she had left it last night. Reaching over to the other side of the nightstand, Claire encircled one hand around the item and grasped it before picking it up.

That morning, and every morning since the shark attack of 1997, she had put on the prosthesis that attached itself just below the knee where her left leg would have otherwise been.

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** That's chapter one! Please read and review! Want more? Let me know!

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	2. Chapter 2

**The Human Stain: Chapter 2**

"_Going to church does not make you a Christian anymore than going to the garage makes you a car." __**Dr. Laurence J. Peter **_

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Claire dressed slowly for work, enjoying the fact that she finally had time to get ready. She ambled over to the adjoining bathroom from her bedroom, and flicked on the overhead lights. The small interior was immediately illuminated, causing her to squint as her dilated pupils readjusted themselves to the greater intensity of light. 

The bathroom was a simple affair, a contrast of white-on-beige. Porcelain tiles ringed the room, ending midway up the walls. There was a single sink, toilet, and tub with a showerhead rigged just above it. The wallpaper above the tile encasing the walls was a flat, monotonous tan broken only by artificial stippling. The only splash of color was a blue bath mat next to the shower, which remained at odds with the room's color scheme.

Sighing, the woman leaned over the sink and peered into the small mirror that also served as a medicine cabinet. Surprisingly, she had aged little in the years since the accident. Her nasal-labial lines were a bit more shadowed, true, and the beginnings of crow's feet were starting to have their say at the corners of her gray eyes. She had somewhat of a baby face. Her nose was small on her features, and slightly upturned. Her lips were still full, but they too were beginning to thin with the fading of her youth. For all she had tanned in the past, she had survived aging relatively unscathed. She was paler now, and owned only the requisite browning natural to all those who lived in environs such as hers. It ended at her collarbones and upper arms – a farmer's tan, of all things.

She had stopped wearing shorts, skirts and bathing suits out in public the day she lost her leg. She no longer cut up perfectly good jeans to create shorts, nor did she feel the need.

To show her legs, well, that would just be embarrassing. No one needed to see her prosthesis, least of all her. She was used to it as a daily part of her life, but it didn't mean she was proud of it.

_No one thinks a peg leg is attractive, and this is about equal to it_, she mused bitterly to herself.

Flinging her image and morose thoughts aside with a deft movement of her hand, Claire opened the medicine cabinet and extracted her toothbrush. It was going to be another hot July day in Nevada, she could already feel the heat creeping upwards as she rummaged for a tube of toothpaste towards the back of the cabinet. Once both toothpaste and toothbrush were in both hands, the woman began to squeeze a dab on the brush's bristles. The tube gave wheeze, and then flung a cord of toothpaste over the hand gripping the toothbrush. Too much at once.

Sighing again, Claire turned on the faucet, set down the toothpaste and proceeded to wash her hands.

The day was turning into a real winner, she could tell.

* * *

"Oh, no you don't!" Claire gritted her teeth and swatted the steering wheel like one would the rump of a misbehaving child. She was behind the wheel of her 2004 Eclipse, something she had bought for the affordability and sporty appearance when it was new. It had been a reliable vehicle for all of two years, but lately it had been giving her grief. She was still sitting in her driveway, staring at the detached garage to the right of her ranch house. 

"I cannot believe you, this is no way to behave," Claire chided, turning the key in the ignition once more. The engine revved as if trying, but refused to turn over. Disgusted, Claire smacked the center column of the steering wheel with the butt of her palm and was rewarded when the car gave a broken honk.

"Fuck it all," the woman cursed, grabbing the door handle and pushing outwards. The door swung open, and she slid out of the driver's seat. With her hands on her hips, she stared disapprovingly down at the Eclipse's moon roof. The vehicle beeped at her, letting her know that the car door was open. At least some things worked. Her predicament swam through her mind, scavenging for solutions. She couldn't risk turning the key anymore; she was likely to flood the engine if she hadn't already. The car had been like this the past month, toying with her mind and hopes. Sometimes it would fire right up for a few days, leaving her to wonder if it ever had a problem at all. Other times were exactly like this – the car just refused to budge. She was beginning to believe the Eclipse was not a morning person. It made sense, given that she was not either.

"Like attracts like," came a rogue thought that somehow manifested itself through her vocal chords. Shaking her head as if to clear it, Claire shut the door of the car with her nearest hip and leaned against it. The car stopped emitting its infernal digital blips, and all was quiet. Throwing up her hands, Claire marched back into her house. "You win, I'm calling a tow truck."

* * *

Claire rode high in a yellow tow truck that had just begun to show its age. Next to her, in the driver's seat, was John Boyd. John was a man in his early thirties, and a grubby one at that. His face was clean-shaven, but his blue uniform was stained with grease, oil and other indistinguishable fluids. He had a heavy-set brow that made his small blue eyes appear even smaller. Currently, his deep brow was furrowed in concentration as the two pulled into an asphalt lot that was crumbling away into the desert below it. Behind them, Claire's Eclipse followed. It was hooked to the back of the truck, matching the larger vehicle's speed. 

The blonde woman's eyes were drawn to the pitted and faded sign on top of a concrete building at the center of the lot.

In scrawling, cursive letters reminiscent of the 50's, it read: _**BOYD & SONS AUTO REPAIR.**_

John Boyd was one of those named sons. He was the oldest of the duo, and had a younger brother named Max. Their father, Boyd Senior, was named Mick. All Boyds shared a similar, stocky build that seemed to run in their family. John was the tallest of the three, Max was just a mite shorter, and the eldest Boyd was the shortest of all.

John cranked open the driver's side door to the old tow truck, and it groaned in protest. The summer heat hit them both like a furnace, and even John flinched. "Hot one today," he remarked simply.

"You could say that again," Claire agreed as she similarly opened her own door. Whatever meager air conditioning the tow truck had offered on the ride there fled the cab, leaving her sitting in the morning sun. It was a cloudless day, and she had to blink several times before shielding her eyes with the flat of her hand. She rounded the front of the truck and glanced over at John, who gave her a two-fingered flick of his hand. Following him, he led her over to the auto garage.

A sleepy dog chained to an old park bench raised his head from the shade of the building as they approached, but then whined and resettled. Claire had a quick flashback at the sight of the dog, and she remembered being in a hospital bed as she asked her parents about the fate of the canine she had attempted to save. Her parents had exchanged worried glances, but fortunately for them she had passed out again before she could retrieve an answer. She found out weeks later that the dog had not in fact made it – the surf had crushed him against the crags.

Forcing the memory away, Claire gave the dog a wide berth while John gave it an appraising look. "Lazy Red," was all he offered. The dog gave a whimper, but did not attempt to raise his head. There was a bowl of dirty water nearby, presumably for the dog, but it was nearly gone. It seemed the humans weren't the only ones suffering from the heat.

John opened the door to the office, and an old bell jangled overhead to announce their arrival. Sweat had begun to prick its way across Claire's forehead, so it was nearly a shock to step from 100-degree temperatures into 71-degree air-conditioning. The cool wave tensed her shoulders, but relief soon followed. The interior of the auto garage was dusty, and sunlight filtered through two dirty shop windows where they had entered. Motes of dust danced in the sunbeams, floating idly before swirling in complex movements. There was a grimy cash register sitting atop an equally grimy counter, and behind it sat Mick Boyd.

Mick Boyd was in his late fifties, a man who emitted a sense of strength and resolve despite his short stature. He stood eye level with Claire, perhaps shorter, but seemed undeterred by this fact. His salt-and-pepper hair matched his mustache, and like his son he had the same deep-set blue eyes. Claire noticed he was wearing a new John Deere baseball cap, set crooked on his head where his usual 'Boyd & Sons Auto Repair' cap would be. It clashed with his dark gray uniform, but he seemed proud to wear it.

"Hey, Mick," Claire held up a hand and gave him a wave.

"Claire!" Mick exclaimed, seemingly delighted to see her. "What brings ya down to see this old man?"

Claire smiled for the first time that day. Mick was well known around Boulder City – he had been in business with his own father since as far back as anyone could remember. He was a homegrown member of Boulder City, as were his sons. There was scarcely anyone that had grown up in town who would not recognize him. Claire had been initially recommended to him when she first moved to Nevada three years ago, and she had stayed with him since buying her Eclipse. He knew that car better than she did. He was always the one to change the oil on it, or to fix a radiator leak. He treated all his customers well, and to Claire there was no exception. She would even admit that he treated her as well as he would treat his own daughter.

"Heard yer havin' trouble," Mick said.

"You could say that."

"What can I do ya fer?" came his curious reply.

"I tried to start the car this morning for work, and it made a sound like it was starting, but the car wouldn't completely start."

"How many times were ya turnin' the key over?"

"I tried about eleven times," she stated meekly.

He winced, and so did she. "Ya might of flooded 'er."

"It's a possibility. I'm sorry."

The older man came from around the desk, passed his son and clapped her on the shoulder in a kindly fashion. "It's okay, Clair-ee," he crooned, "we'll take a look at 'er. You need ta be getting' ta work?"

Claire smiled fondly at him. "Yeah, about that… do you have a loaner I could borrow for now? Possibly?" Her last question lilted upwards, sounding hopeful.

"Best we take a look-see, Clair-ee." Mick chuffed at his rhyme, a fact that was not lost on John and Claire. John rolled his eyes, and Claire giggled. Turning to his son, Mick raised his eyes and addressed him in a more somber tone. "Johnny-boy, run back and see if we have anything out in the lot for Claire here."

_Seems like no one escapes Mick's horrible names,_ Claire laughed inwardly.

John gave his father a questioning look before nodding. He seemed unphased by the rather unbecoming nickname – that or just used to it. "Gimme a sec," he murmured before exiting through a door to the rear of the office. John, Claire noticed, was never one for many words.

Dimly, she realized that time was growing short and she needed to be in to work soon.

Silence persisted between Mick and Claire as Mick readjusted the cap on his head.

Taking note of it once more, Claire motioned to it. "New hat?"

"Yup," the old man replied, puffing his chest out in pride.

"Looks good!"

"Thanks be, Clair-ee." He winked, Claire laughed, and somewhere outside a car's engine sputtered.

"Max is out in the garage workin' on a Beamer. Don't see many of those round these 'parts."

"Really?" Claire raised an eyebrow, and was about to ask a question concerning BMW's when John returned. The man was sweating profusely, leading Claire to believe that the temperature outside had climbed even higher.

"Couldn't find nothin'," groused John, "'cept this old Datsun out there."

Claire glanced up at the clock over the door. She was going to be late.

"A Datsun?" Mick turned, his eyes widening with surprise. Bumbling over to the counter, the old mechanic began to sift through the pages of a dog-eared notebook covered in dust. "I don't think we have a Datsun down as a loaner. You sure, boy?"

"Yeah, here." John threw something shiny and metallic towards his father, and the older Boyd caught it without missing a beat. Shiny keys jangled from between Mick's thumb and forefinger, and he appeared confused.

"Did some guy just leave his car here? Says here all our loaners are out for the day."

Claire watched the proceedings keenly, not quite sure what it was all about. The one thing she did know was that she needed to be getting to work. She had already called in telling them she would be late due to car problems, but the musty clock on the wall with the iron hands told her it was nearing noon.

"We can't just hand over the keys ta some random car in our lot. Call the county, get rid of it."

It was then that Claire interjected anxiously, "It doesn't matter, I'll take anything at this point. I just need to get to work. I'll bring it back this afternoon, unscathed. I just need something to get to work in."

Both sets of male eyes turned to her, regarding her evenly. Her gaze flickered frantically between them, pleading them.

It was Mick who spoke first, of course. "We could get in big trouble for letting you use a car we do not own, Claire." He had ceased to use his nickname for her, which let her know he was being gravely serious.

"Please, Mick? Just for today."

More moments slipped by as he digested her words. Finally, he scuffed the toe of his work boot against the wood floor and spun around with a speed surprising for one his age. "Let's take a look-see at this car."

Leading the way with the keys fisted in a white-knuckled grip, Mick Boyd departed through the rear service door and glanced over his shoulder with an expectant look. Like petulant children following their commandeering father, John and Claire exchanged looks and then followed behind him.

Once again, there was a rush of heat that flared against her skin while the sun threatened to blind her. The back lot was a mess of oil drums, oil rags and other debris. It was nothing but a dirt parking space, and held no special relevance except for the car parked on the far end of the lot. From where she stood, she could not discern the color. It was gray, or a light blue, or some combination of the two. The sun bounced off the dull finish, causing fluctuations in visibility that made it difficult to ascertain much from her vantage point.

In front of her, she heard Mick hitch a quick breath. He sauntered across the parking lot, nearly breaking into a run from anticipation. Despite the fact that the metal might burn his fingertips, he reached out upon reaching the car and moved his hand across the hood in appreciation.

"Boy!" he barked, "do'you have any idea what this is? It's a classic!"

Classic was right – the car was old. Older than the dirt it sat upon, that was for sure. It was no model she could recognize, although logically she knew it had a name. She had just heard that name not too long ago, after all. A Datsun. What on earth was a Datsun?

"I found the keys on the dash. The door was unlocked," John cut in, disrupting her thoughts.

"Who in the nine hells would leave this out in the middle of our lot! It's a… looks like a 1979. 1979 Fairlady Z."

"Thought it was a Datsun?" questioned Mick's son.

"Have I taught you nothing, boy!?" growled the older mechanic, gesticulating wildly all the while. "This… this car… Nissan _was_ Datsun in the good 'ol U.S. of A." Mick's features were the most animated Claire had ever seen them.

And, all the while, she had stood there. She had stood there watching a man salivate over an old heap of junk that had rolled out of the assembly line before she was even born.

_I cannot believe this…_ her mind trailed.

What she couldn't further believe is that she was willing to drive that thing to work. She was desperate, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

Putting herself bodily between father and son, Claire forced their attention on her. "Is it alright with you, then? May I drive it just for today?"

Mick lifted a wizened brow. "You know how to drive a stick, girl?"

She almost told him the truth – she honestly didn't know much. She had had a few joy rides with her friend Jen's Land Rover, and that was the extent of her knowledge. The basics she understood, it was the finesse of shifting she did not.

"I used to drive stick," was all she managed.

Mick Boyd sighed, appearing torn. "I've never seen this car in my life. I know it ain't mine. But…" he hedged, glancing rapidly between his son and Claire, "I suppose it won't hurt nothin' to let you for a day. I won't tell no one." He smacked his son on the back, and John nearly went flying from the force. "That means you too, boy."

Grumbling to himself, John righted his stance and arched his back as if to stretch. "Fine by me."

Mick turned to Claire, his face completely serious. "Just be sure to bring 'er back in one piece. We should have yer Eclipse ready to roll out later this afternoon after we figger out the problem. We should call the car in then. Could be stolen."

_Stolen!?_ Claire turned incredulous eyes to the metal deathtrap before them. _Who would steal this piece of crap? It's lucky I even want to borrow it!_

Despite everything, Claire was extremely grateful for Mick's act of generosity towards her. She felt like she could even hug him for all he did for her, but he might not appreciate that. She had never hugged the man before and it might be an unwelcome action – people did have bubbles, after all.

"Oh, thank you Mick, thank you!" she clapped her hands together once, and then scanned the car appraisingly. "Does it even run?"

"Only one way to know, Clair-ee."

A soft, metallic chime trilled through the smoldering airwaves as the Fairlady Z's keys were tossed in her direction. Unlike Mick, she caught like a girl and fumbled before dropping them entirely. Scrambling to pick them out of the desert dirt, she stood upright and held them before her with a skeptical eye.

Mick let out a great belly laugh. "Work on that catch, girl!"

A memory, unbidden, touched upon her mind. In her mind's eye, an old high school friend threw her a frisbee. She caught it, and held it high over her head triumphantly while the phantom friend told her to toss it back.

_'Jeez, Jen. Give me a sec here. I rarely catch this thing,'_ she called.

_'That's why we're here_,' Jen had replied.

Holding the keys before her in the noonday Nevada sun, Claire stopped reminiscing and instead forced a small smile to her lips. Cryptically she whispered, "_That's why __**I'm**__ here._"

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine. 

**A/N:** Hope you liked chapter two! Thanks for the reviews, I really appreciate it. I'm kind of used to reading fanfics where reality is deus ex machina and things are just given to the main character. I am trying to make this fanfic as real as possible, and that means the main character has to deal with some pretty mean realities, just like in real life. So, yeah… in that vein, I hope you are not disappointed. I'm keepin' it real!

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**The Human Stain: Chapter 3**

_It's true that we don't know what we've got until we lose it, but it's also true that we don't know what we've been missing until it arrives. __**Unknown**_

* * *

Both Boyd men watched the blonde with the ponytail slide behind the wheel of the car. Mick looked apprehensively at his son, and shook his head. "Wasted on 'er, boy. You don't come by a car like that everyday." 

John shifted his gaze over and down to his old man. He dusted off his palms, shook his head, and muttered, "Sheeeet. We ain't getting in no trouble for this, are we?"

Mick just gave a small shake of his head, and readjusted his cap. The hot summer air felt good against the perspiration slicking his face as he made a few half-hearted attempts to fan himself with the baseball cap. "We ain't seen nothin' until we report it tonight. Got that?"

"Got it."

Meanwhile, Claire was dying of heat shock inside a tin can that resembled a car. Without thinking about it, she plopped herself into the driver's seat before hitting the roof of the car with a shriek. "YEOWCH!" It had been bad enough that the car had the steering wheel on the right side, where the passenger seat would normally be on other cars. How odd. Now the seat was trying to brand her.

Both Mick and John Boyd quit talking long enough to realign their eyes with the girl and car. "You okay?" Mick ventured first.

"Yeah, yeah," Claire gasped, angling her body so that she was off the burning vinyl that the sun had oh-so-nicely heated in everyone's absence. Even through her jeans, she felt the tingling ache that had accompanied the original surge of pain.

_Duh, it's almost noon and this car has been sitting here God-knows-how-long_, she scolded herself. _You should of seen that coming._

"Forgot the seat was going to be hot."

A corner of John Boyd's mouth quirked upward.

Shooting a glare down at the seat beneath rear end, Claire couldn't help but notice that the seats had been detailed. It was small, but the center cushion had a number emblazoned upon it. "38?" she mouthed quietly.

Keeping the door open to air the car out, Claire slipped one of the two keys present on the key ring into the ignition. Inhaling slowly, she turned the key. It was the moment of truth.

All three were startled when the engine gunned to life without hesitation. Claire herself held plenty of hesitation, holding her body aloft over the seat to avoid another burn while letting go of a breath she hadn't known she had been holding.

"IT LIVES!" cried Mick Boyd, throwing his hands up in celebration for all the world like the fictional Victor Frankenstein. John Boyd watched his father do a small jog in place with an impassive expression. Mick slapped the roof of the car, which seemed to earn him a loud rev of the engine. "That's right, Clair-ee, show yer stuff!"

"Show wha…?" Claire trailed off, confused by Mick's candor and the subsequent noise that followed it. She hadn't done that. It must have been an old car quirk; the thing _was_ almost thirty years old. Giving the dashboard console a quick once-over, Claire groaned.

_No air conditioning?!_ her head protested.

_Never look a gift horse in the mouth,_ reprimanded a more conscientious voice.

Oh no, not that again. She was so not having a mental argument with herself. That was the first sign of lunacy. The next would be talking out loud the same way, and so on. Claire prayed she wouldn't get that far.

Bracing for the worst, Claire cautiously lowered herself so that her butt touched the seat. Her eyes were closed, her features crunched together – but her face suddenly cleared when she realized the seat wasn't searing hot anymore. It was actually somewhat cool. Making sure she hadn't burned her nerve endings off the first time, Claire hefted her body up once more by bracing her upper shoulders against the back of the seat while simultaneously arcing her body upwards. Using a freehand to grope the vinyl material beneath her, she came to a startling conclusion. Definitely cool… how did that happen so fast?

"Clair-ee?" Mick Boyd called uncertainly over the sound of the engine.

"Sorry, yeah, I'm on my way!" Temporarily panicking as she scrambled to remember how to drive a stick, Claire lifted one foot off the brake and the other off the clutch while shifting into first gear.

The car promptly died.

"Uh…" Sinking lower into her seat, Claire's eyes sheepishly flickered between her audience and the steering column. Something caught her eye there, and her gaze held. The center axis where she presumed the horn to be located had a strange insignia, something she had never come across before. One finger tipped forward and traced the outline while the digit's owner remained fixated by it. The design was very geometric in quality, and from a very abstract point of view she could make out what might have been a mask. It had two dark spots that resembled eyes, a long rectangular vertical shape she thought to be a nose, and a trapezoid below that that might be a mouth. Most definitely odd.

"Hey, you sure you can drive this?" Claire jumped, surprised by the elder mechanic. He had circled the car to the driver's side, and was currently leaning over through the open driver's door to gaze suspiciously at the driver herself.

"Oh god, don't do that!" Claire exclaimed, wiping a wet wisp of hair out of her eyes. The longer she sat there sweltering, the more she felt like a grease monkey – and she didn't even work at the garage. Regaining some of her composure, she sat a little straighter and nodded her affirmative to Mick. "Yeah, yeah, I guess I just got a little excited and wasn't paying attention."

Giving Claire a less-than accepting look, the old mechanic sighed and patted the roof once more. "Give 'er another go, I guess."

"Right." Claire gave Mick a tiny wave and he backed off enough to let her shift her focus to the controls.

"How did this go again…" the woman muttered to herself, quietly enough that Mick wouldn't hear.

She turned the engine over again after making sure she was no longer in first gear. Careful with her feet, Claire kept her prosthesis on the clutch and her other leg on the brake. So far, so good. The car was running fine in neutral, but it was either do or die in the next coming moments.

"C'mon, c'mon," she coaxed it. With her foot off the brake, she began easing off the clutch and down on the gas at the same time after shifting into first. The Datsun crept forward, and Claire's eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

_I'm doing it! I'm actually doing it!_

Claire turned the wheel, accelerated, and then shifted into the next gear. The car rolled along faster, and her fear of failure began to ebb. There was a moment when she glanced back into the cloudy rearview mirror – she could see Mick waving at her cloud of dust while John stood aside of his father with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Both figures lost detail via distance and dust, and it was with an unsteady hand that she signaled to turn right out of the lot. The blinker clicked loudly, and she took the turn without mishap.

Now on the road, Claire's courage continued to climb. She reached for the radio dial, hoping it wasn't just an a.m. receiver. Cars as old as the one she drove often only tuned into a.m. stations, after all.

The moment she turned the dial, she deeply wished she hadn't.

"_**?Bailamos!**_

_**  
Let the rhythm take you over...**_

_**  
?Bailamos!"**_

"_**AHHHHHHGG!**_" came her strangled scream at the sudden explosion of sound. At the same time, she swore she felt the car's engine chortle. Adrenaline drove her to twist the dial back almost violently, and at the same time she hit the brakes and squealed to a stop. With her pulse beating in her ears, she sat gasping like a winded animal. She had stalled the car again, but that was the least of her concerns. The blasting of a horn behind her jump, and she glanced over her shoulder. The driver behind her was laying on his horn, clearly irritated by her sudden stop. Trembling fingers reached for the steering wheel again, and she thought out the process in her mind while shifting back to neutral. Driving on the right side of the car wasn't nearly as difficult when more pressing concerns made their point known.

_Let off the brake, clutch, ease off, add gas…_

Claire was moving again. She had to repeat, _brake, clutch, gas_ as a mindless mantra all the way to work while inwardly fuming at the nameless idiot that had left the radio tuned into an obnoxious pop station.

* * *

The 1979 Datsun pulled into a sea of fresh asphalt, and rolled past rows of cars lined one-by-one in their respective parking spaces. Claire parked in the back. She had managed to make it to work without further mishap, and thanked her lucky stars for that. Today was just not her day. It would have been fine if it had ended with the splurge of toothpaste, but no, it simply escalated to the point where she was riding around in a junker for lack of a better vehicle. At this rate, she was sure to try her luck with a disgruntled customer and have it out in the store. 

Claire's place of work was not quite where she imagined she would be at this point in her life. She worked at Ashbury Paints, a large chain in the southwest that catered to a professional painter's wish list. The largest portion of their customer base was do-it-yourselfer's, but any contractor that stepped inside was treated as king. As a graduate of Santa Clara University in California, Claire had a degree in chemistry that she never put to use. In fact, that was her problem – she never applied herself. If Simon were still around he would drink to that fact. Instead of mixing components in a lab like she had someday hoped, here she was mixing tints. Her decision to move to Nevada had been hasty on the heels of her divorce, and she took the first job she was offered.

Problem was, she had stayed there. She would never admit it to herself, but she had the horrible habit of getting too comfortable without assessing other options. Maybe she was lazy, maybe she didn't care, but that was the indelible truth.

Some part of the shark attack had changed her, and it had had a snowball effect that had impacted her personality ever since. Claire used to be a risk taker, and wouldn't think twice about something if she felt the need to go for it. After gaining her prosthesis, she remained somewhat impetuous but it had definitely toned her down. The divorce only proved to further distance herself from the girl she had once been.

In a way, losing her leg had catapulted her life into this downward spiral. It was something she hadn't realized yet, or maybe she did, but by then it was something like a taped train wreck. In slow motion, one could record exactly when the impact occurred.

The moment could be replayed over and over again for analysis, but no one could _rewind the reality_ of what had already happened.

The young woman climbed out of the car, soaked in her own sweat. The seat had cooled somehow, but the interior of the car had been an oven. She had been forced to keep her head outside the open window the entire drive, much like a dog with his tongue wagging in the wind. The image fit with her less than glamorous day, really.

Slamming the door shut in disgust, Claire ignored the metallic clang that seemed to echo throughout the car. She walked around it, intent on heading for store when she noticed that the car had an old decal at the very end of its hood. The number was coated in dust, gray and barely legible, but it was unmistakable – 38.

"Was this a racecar once?" she idly wondered aloud, tapping the bare metal with a single fingernail. The car suddenly rocked back on its shocks once, or maybe she only imagined it. Now that she was alone in front of the vehicle, she gave it a more thorough perusal. What she thought had been gray and blue from afar seemed to be instead a two-tone color scheme that had faded with time under the sun. The lower half of the car was the gray-blue, and the upper half held a hue that blurred somewhere between a gray and a purple, almost as if the top plane of the Datsun had been red once. She could have sworn the number '38' was emblazoned on the car doors as well. Why hadn't she noticed it before? In any case, one thing was for certain: the car either needed an entirely new paint job or someone had to take it on one last drive to a metal graveyard for a nice retirement.

Shaking her head, the woman locked the car and shoved the old key ring into her pocket. She had to get to work, and pondering the origins of the junker was the last thing she needed to do. She stepped lively across the parking lot once the vehicle was secure, and headed for the box store at the end of the blacktop. Large letters spelling out 'Ashbury Paints' loomed overhead, and then there was the familiar 'whoosh' of the automatic doors as Claire stepped into air-conditioned comfort.

Inside, the store was typical for one selling its particular wares. There was a line of three registers for checkout and a customer service counter near the front, as well as restrooms. Towards the back of the store on the right-hand side, there was a stainless steel paint desk for customers to place their orders. Behind the desk were the paint mixers and tint canisters, as well as the odd employee or two. The left side of the store was lined with shelves of miscellaneous product such as spray paint, brushes, paint thinner and other accessories. The middle of the store was devoted to paint chips, and held rows of them for customers to browse. The ceiling was high, denoting the structure as a warehouse. It wasn't an overly large building, but it was a good size.

For years, Claire had worked there.

Making her way towards the back of the store, Claire gave a few waves to some of her fellow employees. Lastly there was Miguel Ramirez, up on a ladder stocking paint rollers. She gave him a bob of her head and a smile, and was rewarded with a wave before he dropped a roller out of the bundle that was tucked in the crook of his elbow. It fell several feet, hit the concrete floor and rolled down the aisle he was working in. Claire swore she heard a muffled curse, and he started to make his way down the work ladder with his arms full.

"Hey, wait," she interrupted, chasing after the rogue roller, "let me get that."

Snatching the stray item up with one hand, she readjusted the purse hanging from her shoulder and handed the roller back up to the man. He was about her age, perhaps slightly younger, and in that moment extremely thankful. "Thanks, Walters."

"Claire," she corrected him.

"You know I know, I just like annoying you."

"Noted," returned her dry voice.

"Where's Zebrowski?"

"Haven't run into him yet, thankfully."

Miguel nodded in agreement. They both held a mutual dislike for the assistant store manager, something ingrained over many years enduring his humorless work ethic. There wasn't a day that went by when Zebrowski wouldn't be trying to 'uphold the store's core values' and reciting them to the employees like a fanatical corporate prophet.

"Well, I better clock in. I'm already really late," Claire sighed.

"Okay, sounds good. See you later."

"Later."

A short wave, and then she was continuing on her trek for the break room. She left the cavernous storeroom for a small hallway that stretched back a few feet before turning into an open room. Vending machines lined one wall, lockers lined another, and somewhere in the middle stood an array of tables and chairs. There was a small kitchenette with a sink, microwave, and mini fridge at the far end of the break room for employee use, and indeed it did show a fair bit of use. Bits of food encrusted the edges of the microwave, and dirty dishes were heaped in the small sink. If Zebrowski saw this, he would undoubtedly shuffle all employees back into the break room to give a lecture on store cleanliness.

Rolling her eyes at the thought, Claire thanked whatever luck she had been left with that day and clocked in. She was alone, and Zebrowski was nowhere in sight. Hurriedly, the blonde punched her social security number into the store's digital timekeeper. It was a device that was attached to the wall nearest the entrance to the break room, and had been a suggestion from Zebrowski to the store manager. Instead of time cards, he had argued for this digital demon – that way employees could no longer forge false times onto the paper equivalent.

The machine in front of her blipped at her, a scornful sound and displayed the time she clocked in. 12:34 p.m. She should have been in by 8, and the machine let her know it. After showing her the time she clocked in, it promptly gave her the time between 8 and 12:34.

**-4 hr 34 min**

She really, really hated Zebrowski. He could dig it in even when he wasn't physically around.

Turning from the mechanical menace, Claire set her purse down on a nearby table and began to mess with the dial on her locker. Upon hearing a satisfying 'click', she swung the locker door aside and pulled out her uniform – an apron splattered with paint. She put the top strap over her head, and began to tie it in the back.

Yep, today was definitely taking the cake for worse day ever.

* * *

The day eventually wound down to a close. Claire, for her part, was absolutely amazed that she hadn't encountered a testy customer. Everyone was cordial for the most part, save for one woman who could not decide for the life of her on what color she actually wanted. She made Claire mix many different hues based on a sample of red wallpaper taken from the woman's living room. Each time, the woman rejected the results of Claire's endeavor to mix the right color. The computerized color sampling hadn't gone well, and the color had been off enough the first time that even Claire could see it. From there, well, it had only served to prove the woman was truly colorblind. 

By the fourth gallon of wasted paint, the older customer had still shaken her head, denying it was the right color to her sample. Claire took several of her coworkers into the situation, and each declared the fourth gallon to be nearly identical to the sample. Still, it did not sway the woman. After much back and forth, the woman decided to go with a yellow from a paint chip she had found abandoned on the paint desk from a previous customer. How the woman had so vehemently wanted the red before flippantly deciding on the yellow was beyond Claire's conception, but she did not ask questions. Five gallons of paint later, the woman left with one.

It was times like these that made Claire want to question her faith in humanity.

It was 3:30 when the customer left with her urine yellow (calling it such made her feel slightly better) and 6:00 when she finally left the store after a deluge of customers stampeded inside around 5:00. She was supposed to get off at 5:00, but Zebrowski had 'suggested' she stay longer. Anyone with half a brain knew his 'suggestion' was really a sugarcoated command. Gritting her teeth, she toughed it out.

It was around 6:00 when she exited her weekday prison.

"Oh, hell no."

Claire skidded to a halt. The air had cooled considerably, and temperatures continued to drop steadily as the desert prepared for night. The last of the sun's rays were fading into the distance, turning the sky all shades of pink and yellow.

Despite the dimmer circumstances, she did not have to have ace vision to see what had been written into the grime on the back window of the Datsun.

WASH ME

_Smart ass kids_, she mentally cursed.

Glancing around, she squinted against the twilight as she tried to make out anyone hiding among the last of the lingering cars inhabiting the parking lot. She saw no one, heard no one, but it didn't mean they weren't there.

"It isn't even mine!" she spat to no one in particular, "It's just a crappy junk heap!"

Silence.

Muttering angrily to herself, she fumbled for the keys in her purse only to realize a minute later that she had stuck them in her jeans pocket. She patted for them, felt the bulge, and then extracted them. Still cursing in a most unintelligible way, she stuck the car key into the car door and turned it while lifting up on the handle.

Nothing.

"What… the… hell…" she said brokenly, setting her purse down. She used both hands this time, with both sets of fingers under the silver handle. When this proved fruitless, she turned the key again to make sure she had actually unlocked it. Through the window, she could see the knob was popped up. It was unlocked, but it just wouldn't open.

"Piece of shitty crap…" she lamented. Desperate, she put her good leg up against the side of the car for extra force, and balanced on her prosthetic as both fingers gripped themselves like lancers beneath the door handle.

She inhaled sharply, and pulled back.

The door swung open as easily as one would expect from any unlocked car, and Claire went flying. All balance lost, the blonde landed on her rear and bounced a couple of times before securing herself against the asphalt with both hands on either side of her body.

Her face bore a comical expression reading of bewilderment, and her mouth hung agape. It took her a few seconds to register what had just happened, and then she was once more on her feet, rubbing her aching backside.

"_**PIECE OF CRAP!**_" accused Claire, pointing at the offending vehicle in a rage.

The car stood silent, the mocking door still ajar.

Stomping over to the vehicle, Claire dropped herself into her seat like a puppet whose strings were suddenly severed. She reached out, teeth clenched, and pulled inwards to shut the door.

It wouldn't budge.

Claire groaned and fell against the steering column in defeat.

God hated her today.

_No. Fucking. Doubt_.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine. 

**A/N:** There's Chapter 3, hope you liked it! For all you noticing, I've been quiet on who the car really is. I've dropped enough hints in this chapter for you to probably get a good idea, and if you are still wondering… well, let's just say you shall find out later! Please R&R!

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**The Human Stain: Chapter 4**

_If you just realized what I just realized  
Then we'd be perfect for each other  
And we'll never find another  
Just realized what I just realized  
We'd never have to wonder if  
We missed out on each other now._

**Colbie Caillat**

* * *

"Whoa, Max, back up. You're telling me I _can't_ have my car back?"

There was just an edge of frustration evident in Claire's voice. She was pulled over at a gas station along the highway, halfway between home and work. The sun had since set, and the only light came from streetlamps and headlights. The Datsun with the WASH ME on its rear window was currently parked before the gas station's storefront, and the interior lighting gave Claire's face a sickly pallor.

"Sorry, Claire," buzzed a young man's voice. Claire readjusted her cell phone against her ear and frowned. Max was the youngest of the three Boyds, and apparently he was the only one at the garage at the moment. He was a product of Mick Boyd's second marriage, and was a half-brother to John. The kid was in his late teens, and she felt a momentary pity for him. Holding down an auto garage alone for a day at that age had to be tough. The two older Boyd men did most of the heavy repair work. Max could do oil changes and top off your coolant, but he seemed to do more duties focused around keeping the garage clean and ringing up customers after their car was repaired.

"Sorry? Max, where's Mick?"

"He's with John. Both of 'em are out. We were working on this new Beamer and…"

"He mentioned that," Claire nodded.

"Yeah, so it turns out there was a coolant leak. The guy who owns it needed it fixed today, and he brought it in before you."

"What does that have to do with anything?" she postulated.

"Dad and John had to go find a replacement tube for the coolant hookup. You can't drive a car when the temperature gauge is through the roof."

Claire ran a quick hand through the hair on top of her head, smoothing it back into the ponytail. "Why did it take both of them to do it?"

"It's not exactly easy to get parts for a BMW out here," Max replied, as if stating the obvious. His gravely voice became more patient and slow, and Claire started to take offense. "Dad called around and apparently there are two places in Vegas that might have the part. There's also a shop in Bullhead City that swears they have the part, so John left for there."

"Bullhead is pretty far," Claire said glumly.

"Yeah," Max agreed. "Dad has to check out both places in Vegas and doesn't know if he can get back in time. John won't be back until tomorrow."

Claire groaned. "Has any work been done on the Eclipse?"

"Dad started to look at it, but then the Beamer owner called in and started getting nasty, saying he needed his car by tomorrow morning at the latest."

"Ridiculous," Claire muttered into the mouthpiece.

"Tell me… ab-out… it." Max's voice wavered on the other end as the cell phone went through a few moments of bad connection.

"Is there anything you can do?" She poked moodily at the rearview mirror, adjusting it incrementally.

"Trust me, I would if I could. As it is I've been barely holdin' down the fort. It's just me. I got the last guy here an oil change and closed half an hour ago. 'Sides, Dad needs to look at your car. I tried to figure out the problem myself once they left, but I'm stumped."

The blonde woman sank in the driver's seat in defeat. "They will be back tomorrow, you say?"

"Should be. I'll tell them you called. Dad told me to tell you he's real sorry. He also said to tell you, 'just keep it for now', whatever that means."

Claire paused a moment, ran the words by herself internally, and then made a sound of frustration. "I hate this thing."

The radio flared to life, drowning out Max's next sentence. It sounded like something by Ice-T.

"Don't hate the player, hate the game…"

Reacting like she'd been slapped, Claire reached over and rotated her wrist swiftly to turn off the radio. The rapper's voice died abruptly.

"What was that!?" she heard Max say with surprise. He sounded slightly rankled.

"Sorry," she finished lamely, "this loaner your dad left me has a problem with the radio. Actually, it has several problems." She shifted in her seat, shooting the radio dial a pointed glare.

"I was wonderin' about that. I checked and it says that all our loaners were out today. How did you get one?"

"Uh…" Claire grated her jaw nervously. Mick obviously hadn't let Max in on the events leading up to her 'loaner'. If he hadn't told him, she sure wasn't. The fewer people that new, the better – even _if_ Max was Mick's son.

"He borrowed me a friend's car," she sputtered.

"Oh. Which friend?" Max sounded suspicious.

"Forgot his name. Anyways, it was okay by your dad and his buddy, so…"

"I guess…"

"Hey, Max, have your dad call me when he gets back tomorrow, okay? I should be getting home."

"Sure thing."

The call ended on that note, and Claire heaved a weary sigh before tapping her fingers along her thigh.

_What a day. Now I'm stuck with this thing for the night. Lucky me._

She put away the cell phone, tucking it into an interior pocket within her purse. After plopping her bag back down on the passenger seat, she mulled over her bad luck once more.

Without warning, the radio was back.

"**Wash  
Wash me clean  
Mend my wounded seams…"**

"I AM NOT WASHING YOU!" the young woman cried indignantly, and once more slapped at the radio dial. There was a brief second after where she pondered the dire consequences of addressing a car, mainly out of concern for her sanity. The car was definitely getting creepy. It was starting to go through different music genres, which meant it was tuning into different stations. It would have been easier on her mind – more logical, that is - if it kept flipping on to the station it had been shut off to, but that wasn't the case.

Not only that, it was getting freaky. It was almost like it was trying to communicate with her.

_I must be more tired than I thought. Yeah, that's it. I'm going home._

Claire glanced into her rearview mirror, saw it was clear, and pulled out of the parking space. Maybe her radio was haunted. She gave a tired laugh.

Haunted – yeah, sure. It wouldn't be the only thing, if it were.

* * *

_o..Before she existed here, she existed before, in memory..o_

* * *

"Claire."

She hears her name, and turns toward it.

"Claire."

It resounds in her head, and it is real, as real as the light in her skull, as real as the fabric she grips tightly between her fingertips.

She opens her eyes.

The voice doesn't speak at first, nor needs to.

Then, it does.

"It's over."

"Why?" she asks, her voice quiet and the silence deafening.

"Because it never really was," he replies.

He does not sound sad. There is no room for it. There were fissures of sorrow that existed before in between the happiness, but they grew into cracks too large and too deep…

…and then they couldn't walk the path anymore because there was too much stumbling…

"Simon," she says his name, and pulls herself upright on their bed.

"It's over," he repeats.

Her heart sinks and pain consumes her. She hurts, but not because she is sad. She hurts because she was wrong. She wants to ask why again, but she already knows why.

She knows why just like he knows why, and the realization sinks in her like a stone.

_Because it never really was._

_o...o_

* * *

Claire woke with a start. Moonlight pierced her window, creating rectangular boxes of light across her bed. Darkness filled the rest of the space, and she blinked against the blackness.

The woman was still a moment, paused in animation like a viper the second before the lethal strike. The house was quiet, and the rustle of fabric as she broke her pause seemed unnaturally loud to her own ears. Her legs swung out and around, leaving her propped upon the precipice of the bed. Her back bent, and her head fell to her lap.

_Over._

It might have been an opportune moment to cry, but that was thankless work. She had already done much of it years before, the ones following the divorce.

The horrifying thing was discovering that she didn't care. That was the truly terrible thing.

All that sobbing, and it was she that she wept for – selfish creature that she was. She cried for herself because she had been wrong, and she had married him for the wrong reasons. He had saved her life, and for that she was eternally bitter and grateful at the same time.

She forced herself to think she loved him in spite of himself, and that had been the biggest farce of all. He had thought he loved her, and while in the spotlight following attack maybe they had convinced themselves this is how it happens, this is_** it**_.

It wasn't, however. It was just a big stage show that covered the news. He saved her life, he stayed by her side, they fell in love, they married, and they would live _happily ever after_. It was the perfect fairy tale, but fairy tales only existed in dreams and stories. Not real life, never there.

Somewhere along the way they were so swept along in what they thought they should do that they forgot to _do_.

It never worked, because there was no work being done.

They floated along, carried by a wave of perceived success so strong that they just let themselves ride it. In the end, they were thrown harshly upon the shore like so much driftwood and left to pick up the fragments.

_Never again._

Sliding out of bed, Claire put all her weight on her good leg and hopped around the berth of the bed without her prosthesis. She kept one hand on the bed frame to steady herself, and then took one last leap before planting both hands against the sill of the large picture window that overlooked her front lawn.

Her gaze perused her property, noting the dry birdbath ringed by shrubbery before moving to the driveway.

Her brow dipped low and she frowned.

The car was missing.

The lighting wasn't the best, admittedly, but she could clearly recall leaving the Datsun parked on the drive where she had left it. The streetlight at the end of the drive cast a sickly glow on everything, and she quickly glanced up and down the block. There were no other cars in sight except a neighbor's Ford Explorer, which was parked up the street.

Panic for a car she didn't even own set in.

Hopping back around the bed in a fevered manner, Claire dipped once she reached her nightstand and groped along the edge for her prosthesis. She was only in her striped cotton pajamas, and barefoot. The silicone liner was laying upon the nightstand, within arm's reach. She rolled this onto her stump first after pulling back her pajama pants with all the practice of a seasoned amputee, and then rolled on the prosthetic sock next. She did this all while working in the dark – she could do this blindfolded. Her left leg had been removed just below her knee, so there was just a small section of upper calf that had been spared.

The prosthesis itself was next. Lining up the pin that protruded out of the silicone liner, Claire pushed down and heard the satisfactory '_click_' that let her know the pin was locked in place at the bottom of the socket. Smoothing her pajama pants leg back down, Claire stood and took a few irregular steps before developing a comfortable stride that allowed her fluid motion.

Down the hall, into the kitchen and out the front door, the woman scanned the area cautiously before turning back at the first urge to call the police. Something stopped her however – the vehicle itself hadn't been reported missing from the first moment they discovered it at Boyd's auto garage. If she reported it now, she would jeopardize not only herself but the Boyds as well.

_You were driving a car without knowing the owner, without insurance, and you expect the police to not think you didn't steal it?_

The voice in her head was right. She couldn't call the police over this one, or she would be in hot water. It still left her with the irrevocable issue at hand, however – the Datsun was missing, and somebody had stolen it.

_Just be glad. You'll get your car back tomorrow. You can call the garage, tell Mick the whole story, and no one will be the wiser._

She flinched and braced herself against the doorjamb as the cool night air rushed past her temple.

_Think, think, think!_

A familiar hum came from up the street, and Claire looked up.

The headlights… a familiar shape. As it rattled closer, she realized it was the Datsun.

_The thief is bringing it back…?_

The vehicle slowed as it approached her drive. It was so dark that she couldn't see into the car, but there was definitely someone in the driver's seat. A shadowy figure was outlined briefly when the car ambulated slowly forward, and then the angle was such that the interior of the car was blocked from sight.

As if noticing her in the doorway, the thief ceased to slow and instead gunned the engine. The car was off like a shot, and Claire was too.

"_**COME BACK HERE!**_" she cried after the stolen car.

_Maybe I should call the police._

Her legs were cycling beyond her own volition, arms pumping as she raced down the sidewalk after the Datsun.

_What am I doing?_

It was a good question. One bare foot smacked smartly against the concrete, ignoring the pebbly texture, and the prosthetic made a tinnier sound as it propelled her forward.

Her lungs were heaving, and she briefly realized she hadn't run this fast since**that** day.

The car with the '38' decal continued to put more and more distance between them, hit the brakes once it reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. Tires squealed as rubber met road, and it nearly did a smart 180.

It was now facing her. The engine revved once, and then the high-pitched whine of wheels began anew.

Claire faltered, slowed, and tried to ignore the stitch in her side before realizing the folly of her ways.

It was coming back, full hilt, in her direction.

The blood drained from her face.

_Idiot_.

Her mind was a very pleasant companion, truly. It didn't seemed too concerned to say more when her self-preservation instinct kicked in, overriding the panic and temporarily bravado (aka insanity) that had gotten her into that position. She spun on her good heel, made a strangled sound, and fled the way she had come.

The roar of the Datsun was fast approaching. It overcame her senses, drowning out her heart rate and she scrambled away from the sidewalk and over a neighbor's garden gnome. Her prosthesis caught, and her own frenzied momentum drove her into a row of hedges separating property lines.

"Ooooph...!" she yelped. A mass of thorny ridges dug into the cotton nightclothes, leaving her with miniature chicken scratches. Her fingers clawed against numerous branches and other bits of foliage as she grappled to get away.

_Can't die, can't die, can't die_, her mind repeated resolutely. Just as she was sure the thief was jumping the curb to run her over right in her neighbor's garden, she broke free of the hedgerow and sprinted for her own house. Claire didn't have much of a plan short of locking herself inside and calling the police. Risks be damned.

She was just two houses away now. Her dwelling rose up quickly, looking more inviting than she had even recalled seeing it. Her heart stuttered as it dawned on her that the Datsun was now matching her speed, going slow for a car but fast for her. The last thing she wanted to do was to glance over and see her pursuer pointing a gun at her head before blowing it off. If she didn't look at him, she wouldn't see it happen. If she didn't see it happen, it couldn't possibly be a possibility – at least in the way she conceived it.

One house away now. So close…

…and then something stabbed her in the foot from below.

Releasing a strangled howl of pain, Claire's features contorted in anguish and she fell heavily on one side like a downed deer.

Distantly, she heard the car idle.

The world slowed to a crawl.

_I'm dead._

She felt faint, and extremely befuddled. Her head swam, and she licked her lips to moisten them. The painful object that had waylaid her was given a quick assessment. It appeared to be a metal sprinkler head left out to water the grass. She must have stepped on one of the rotating arms. Unsure if she was bleeding or not, she grudgingly dragged her attention up to the Datsun.

Claire didn't want to look, but she just had to. It would probably be the last thing she ever saw, after all.

Across from her, separated by a clear-cut line of concrete sidewalk, was the Devil's Datsun. She couldn't see if the driver was still inside due to the fact that she was laying prone on her side, but she heard the car door open from the other side of the car.

He was coming. He was coming to stab, shoot, steal, rape, or any combination of those things. Her fear tasted like a bad salt in her mouth, and her mind ran wild with all sorts of possibilities for her pending demise.

_Scream_, she prompted herself, _he's going to kill you_.

She did then, and let out an ear-shattering one at that. "_**HELP!**_"

Somewhere, a neighborhood dog barked. Across the street, a light flickered on.

"_Shut up!_" shouted a muffled man's voice.

Score another brownie point for faith in humanity!

Crab-crawling backwards, Claire's mind went into hyperactive overdrive. This was definitely going to give her grass stains if she survived it.

The light across the street shut off again, and all was silent once more. There were no footsteps from the car, no sound whatsoever of anyone climbing out.

Forcing herself to stand, Claire limped away from the vehicle while watching it with eyes the size of dinner plates. She saw someone in there, she saw the thief.

Now eye level with the cab, she couldn't see anyone inside. The driver's side door on the right was definitely open, but there was no one in or around the car. Had he somehow escaped without her notice?

The tension was horrible, and twice she opened her mouth to speak, but twice no sound came out, so she waited in agony, wondering if the car thief was hiding somewhere along the dark street. When the seconds slipped by and no one appeared, she took one lame step towards the car. It was still idling quietly, and she was in no immediate danger of being run over.

Cars didn't steer _themselves_, after all.

Her broken gait sped up, and she circled the car until she was on the driver's side, ignoring the pain that shot up her bare foot. She was leaning heavily on her prosthesis now, trying to keep the weight off her injured foot. Peering into the cab, she glanced around for any hiding entities before dropping like a bolt into the driver's seat. She slammed the car door behind her and popped her palm down on the locking mechanism in one fluid motion.

After checking to see if the passenger side was locked too, she let out a sigh of relief. The tension ebbed from her body, and she happened to drop her eyes to the ignition.

There were no keys.

She knew she had kept the thing locked, and last she checked the keys were still secure in her purse, which was in her house…

_Was it hotwired?_

Her hands floated tentatively to the upper rim of the steering wheel, and then she forced her throbbing foot to comply with her brain. She shifted into first, and rolled the car slowly up past the last house before reaching her drive. The car climbed into the concrete driveway, guided by the frazzled blonde behind the wheel.

_God, I can't wait to get rid of this car. Mick is going to love this one._

She vowed never to loan another car from him as long as she lived.

Shifting into neutral, Claire put the car in park and made sure the doors were locked as she exited. She made a hobbled jaunt for her front door, and spent no extra second once inside to lock it behind her. There was a bad moment when she became torn over calling the police or calling Mick or calling anyone or no one at all – and then she decided to simply go to the bathroom to inspect her foot.

She limped down the hall, and into the hallway bathroom. The sudden rush of bright light made her wince, but not as much as the press of her sole against the smooth tile underfoot. God, it _hurt_.

Glancing down with trepidation, the woman made a face and then let out a sigh of relief that sank her shoulders. It wasn't as bad as she had expected. It stung badly, but that was mainly due to the immediacy of the injury. It was a small puncture wound just around the soft arch of her foot, but nothing a Band-Aid wouldn't fix.

Straightening once more, Claire peered into the mirror, disheartened by her disheveled appearance. She was indeed covered with grass stains and remnants of grass – it clung to her loose ponytail in random spikes. Reaching up to start the long and arduous process of picking them out, Claire paused when she noticed a movement.

Her hands froze in place, and her eyes grew large. Unease crept through her chest, chill and hollow.

There, standing behind her, was the face she wore ten years ago.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** There is Chapter 4! You guys are right about Smokescreen, I couldn't keep him a secret for long. As for one commenter's review about the language in the story – read it or don't, it's up to you. Real people curse quite a bit, unless you are the religious type. As Claire is not, she's prone to having a potty mouth when she thinks she's alone – notice she won't go off like a sailor when she's around acquaintances or strangers. She's keenly aware of their perception of her, just like anyone else would be. People tend to loosen up with their lexicon if they think they are their only audience, and I've tried to keep it in that vein. She isn't randomly swearing in every situation. It's just the way she is - like it or leave it.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**The Human Stain: Chapter 5**

_Once my life was plain and clear  
I recall  
Once my ignorance was bliss  
Nightfall came  
Like a serpent's kiss  
To my troubled mind_

_-**Kamelot, Abandoned**_

* * *

Claire whirled to face her own mirror image – save this one was ten pounds lighter, ten years younger, and ten times more pissed off. 

Moments marched by, and all Claire could do was stare at her younger counterpart with severe cognitive dissonance. Her injury forgotten, Claire opened her mouth to speak, but it was too dry. Closing it, she swallowed, licked her lips, and tried again. "Who…"

The girl – her younger self – scowled. It made her instantly ugly and unapproachable. Claire had never produced such an expression herself before – she never could. This facial contortion radiated hate. Belatedly, Claire noticed that this other incarnation had two perfect legs - no prosthesis.

"We finally meet."

"What do you mean, we finally…" Claire didn't get to finish. The girl was suddenly on her, and bearing her down with strength she couldn't possibly possess.

"I wanted to see my organic donor before I dispatched them," hissed the girl, raising her fingernails high overhead.

_Organic donor?!_

The back of Claire's cranium rapped sharply against the porcelain tile, and it took her all of two seconds to realize she was now on her back with her attacker leering just above.

Dazed, the older woman stared up into the face – her face – and noticed first the pale skin. At that age she had been heavily tanned. Everything else seemed shockingly distinct. There was the unblemished complexion, the fine brow and rounded features. The only niggling difference was the eyes. They weren't gray, not exactly. They were mottled with bits of gray, steely in their regard, but behind that burned spots of red. Claire felt her stomach sink into a pit of unease and ignored the throbbing at the back of her skull.

"Who the hell are you!?"

Her mirror-self sneered and then tipped her head back to laugh. The voice was hers, but even this had a slight fluctuation that made it somehow _wrong_.

"Do I not look familiar? I should. I wear your skin."

Okay, she could definitely say she never spoke so formally in her life, and never at that age. "How do you look like… how did you get in here? You'd better leave or… or I'm calling the police!"

_Should of done that already._

"Do you really think you can save your pitiful hide?" the other blonde sneered. Her hair was cropped short, a mod style Claire had never personally worn. The hair was smoothed down flawlessly, so much so that it could have been a wig. "Say goodnight, you sack of guts."

She had been called many names in the twenty-six years she had been on the planet, but this one was a first. That factor somehow made it the most offensive one to date.

_Sack of guts!? Now just wait a darn minute…_

Anger drove her forward, just as her younger stunt double brought her hand down. Faintly, Claire heard the whirring of gears and the scraping of metal. Claire brought the knee of her good leg up, catching the teenager in the lower gut. _I hope __**your**__ sack of guts hurts for that._

If her attacker was in pain, it didn't show. She appeared surprised that Claire was fighting back, however, and was momentarily knocked off kilter when Claire's knee connected with her abdomen. Claire rolled to the right, out from under the girl.

_**Crunch.**_

Claire turned her eyes in time to see a steel claw where the girl's perfectly manicured hand had been. All five talons had driven themselves into the tile floor, creating tiny craters where her head had been seconds before.

The world as she knew it split apart, and everything Claire had ever considered feasible within the realm of reality was now a pipe dream.

The young Claire was turning her head. For the first time, the older Claire noticed what seemed so _off _about this girl, besides the obvious metallic claw. Her actions were fluid.

Inhumanly so.

As if to prove the point about Claire's new observation, the girl – no, the _thing_ – spoke again. The voice it used was shifting away from anything remotely _homo sapien_. "Do not vex me, human. Submit."

She would have screamed, would have liked to, but her adrenal glands were once more in full production mode and had somehow forgotten that step. Instead, she was scrambling for the door. Dissecting the impossibility of the scenario would have to wait. She had to get _away_.

_Oh fuck oh fuck._

The thunder of her heart struck against her rib cage, making her feel like her chest would burst. She scrambled along the floor, crawling like a baby for a few feet before heaving herself upward.

She stood, then promptly fell.

The Terminator wannabe had its freehand wrapped around her prosthesis. She gave a swift, backward kick that knocked it in the head, and Claire swore she heard a reverberating clang.

The thing let go.

Taking whatever strength she had left, the human woman got to her feet and skidded around the corner, out into the hall and down to the front door. She had locked it, she knew she had. It was still closed, which meant that the thing in the bathroom had gotten in via some other route. Claire's hand closed around the doorknob, and she yanked the door aside before rushing into the cool air outside. She held herself suspended in time, staring out between the car from hell and the listening for the creature behind her. It was coming, she knew this, so it was with little choice that she raced forward.

The car was no longer on, and the keys were inside. Running up the block to a neighbor's house seemed to be the only option left.

She was just passing the Datsun on her way to supposed safety when the car started.

Slowly, she turned her head around. Her body naturally followed.

The door opened – by itself.

"Get in," the car demanded.

She was going to pass out.

"_Hurry,_" the car added.

Claire wavered in place like a reed. Her vision was going crazy – everything was blurring and weaving in front of her.

_- a stolen car, a female Terminator, and now said stolen car was a possessed talking car - _

Eyes rolling into the back of her head, Claire's body crumpled to the concrete as her knees gave out.

She thought she heard the car curse, and then there was sweet, noiseless bliss as she knew no more.

* * *

Something tickled her face. She swiped a hand at it. That seemed to do the trick. 

Another scratchy caress.

Her hand rose and reacted as before, but the persistent sensation returned after a brief intermission.

There was a pregnant pause, and then Claire cracked one eye open. Something long and sinuous was rubbing up against her cheek. She batted at it again, and as her vision came into focus she realized it was a long strand of grass blowing in the breeze.

When her bearings came to her, she realized she was laying flat on her back, staring up at an open sky. For a moment fear rose in her gut, and she couldn't remember where she was or how she had gotten there. The young woman rose, bending at the waist, and shifted so that she was lying on her side. Her weight rested heavily on a crooked elbow.

_Where am I…?_

She had had the craziest of dreams. There had been haunted cars and monsters disguised as herself. She got a good chuckle from that.

That was, until she realized she was still in her damp, dirty pajamas –

and that she was lying out in a weed-choked field in the middle of nowhere –

and that there were two large, plated sculptures some fifteen feet away –

and that by raising her gaze from the beginning to end, she could ascertain they weren't sculptures after all, but –

Her mind blanched from the visual overload that her eyes presented. Life just _sucked_ when reality didn't conform to the expectations you had for it.

It was the car. Emphasis on _**was.**_

At the base, brown weeds swept against a bumper. Above that were rear headlights, and still further up was the Datsun's rear window. She instantly recognized it, because **WASH ME** had been halved in two. The rear window now appeared to be part of the plating on two massive legs. Above the window 'shields', the bipedal thing had two robotic legs that connected to a similar waist. Its chest consisted of the hood to the Datsun, and she could plainly see the faded '38'. It had two massive arms, and the Datsun's driver and passenger door were swept out on either side of its broad shoulders like wings.

Two behemoth cannons rested above its head, somehow connected to its back. They moved independently of each other, and swiveled this way and that like an ant's antennae. The head of the giant monstrosity was not in proportion to its enormous bulk, but it definitely had humanoid features.

Two glowing blue orbs flickered at her, and it took her a second to realize that it might have been its way of blinking. It was gray of face, and atop its head was a blue helmet. Whether or not that came off, she could not know. Golden extensions that resembled horns adorned the top of the helmet. The features on the thing were best described as sculpted or chiseled, all the way down to the pronounced chin. It was all metal, after all.

She had to tip her head back all the way to get these last little details. The mechanical leviathan had to be at least over two stories high.

_Holy…_

She reached over, her jaw still slack, and pinched herself - _hard_.

Nothing.

Claire was still in the middle of bumfudge-nowhere staring up at a good wrestling match for Godzilla.

"_Uh…_" she began meekly, not sure _where_ to begin. There weren't exactly instructions on this. Technically, it shouldn't be possible. None of it should be. Technically, she should just snap awake, safe at home in her own bed where giant talking cars and killer clones did not exist except in nightmares.

But no, this… this was the waking world and she was **not** dreaming.

"_Uh…_"

"You have a very eloquent way with words," it said.

That alone was enough to get her to her feet. She stumbled a step or two, and then took off running. She couldn't take any more of the Twilight Zone. Sooner or later she would run into a nice officer of the law and he could politely tell her she had been hooked on the hookah all along before carting her off to the funny farm.

It seemed sure seemed like a pleasant idea at that point, God willing.

She staggered away a bit more, putting as much distance between them as her battered body would allow. Her head was warring with a migraine, and her foot still needed that band-aide. Not only that, she was aching all over.

"What are you doing, human?" the giant asked boredly.

Claire stopped, and then pivoted around to face the former Datsun. She wanted to scream, cry, throw herself down beating the dirt in a fit of compounded emotions, but she didn't. Instead, she tried to rationalize the thing's presence.

_Cool it, Claire. Think. This thing isn't real… can be rationalized. Your car got stolen and you hit your head when you fell. _

Yes, that was most likely the reason for the thing's presence. She had struck her head when she tripped over her neighbor's sprinkler. The mechanical monster was just a figment of her imagination, brought about from too much emotional toil. People created multiple identities, why couldn't she have a talking car?

The more she thought about it, the better she felt. She compartmentalized her fears and used logic to tuck them away into a neat, tidy bundle somewhere in her brain's basement.

"Okay, first thing, don't call me 'human'."

The huge humanoid raised what looked to be a shutter over one eye. A skeptical look? It opened its mouth, as if to speak further.

Claire held up a hand, effectively silencing him. "Second, since you are just something my subconscious created, I want to please ask that you go away. Vanish, poof."

The metal ridge above one of its blue eyes rose even further.

"Got it? I don't want to see you again. I can understand you coming around after the car got stolen, but it's high time you moved on. I can handle it from here, thanks."

Claire waited, and tapped her foot impatiently against the dusty desert floor. She browsed the scenery with a meandering gaze, and then looked up again.

It was still there. Not only was it still there, it was shaking. It shook so hard it sent vibrations along the ground that made her jitter in place.

_Oh my god. It's laughing at me._

"HEY!" Claire snapped her fingers several times, attempting to capture the thing's attention. Its head was tipped back slightly, mouth open. The sound it made was somewhere between a steady thrum and a male chortle. It didn't seem to notice her, which sparked her ire even further.

"_**DOWN HERE, FATSO!**__"_

The laughter died just as soon as it had begun, and the creature took one step forward. The result echoed throughout the nearby area, and left Claire keenly aware that despite it being part of her imagination, it was rather** large**.

Large things with big feet just have to go _stomp stomp stomp_ and it's _goodbye Claire_.

It loomed over her. "What did you call me?" She forgot to breathe.

_It's just your imagination. Imaginations can't hurt you. _It sounded like she was trying to convince herself of that theory.

"You… heard me," she replied rather dumbly.

"Did you just call me fat…?" Then, to her surprise and chagrin, it started to look itself over. It inspected itself to the left, and then to the right, and then it looked down one arm.

_Oh yeah, this is definitely a part of my mind._

"Uh…" Maybe the thing was right; she was awful at words.

The giant stopped examining itself long enough to frown. "I think your processor is in the pit."

"Say what?" Claire blinked.

"You're wrong," it explained dryly.

"I just said it to shut you up!"

"Fleshlings are such funny creatures."

"_Creatures!?_" her indignation was back full force. "I think you need to take a look in the mirror, buddy."

It bent over, and gazed down over its lower legs where the Datsun's rear window was located on each massive trunk. Its 'eyes' flickered several times, and Claire began to form the idea that it was attempting to see itself in the grimy glass. After a matter of seconds, it straightened once more and shot her an accusatory stare. "I would have been able to if _someone_ had seen to it that I was clean. I did ask."

Her jaw fell open.

"YOU wrote that?"

"Who else?"

"I thought…" Oh no, she was NOT having an argument with an emotional crutch formed by her stressed subconscious. This situation was getting more bizarre by the second, and she didn't need to be a raving basket case even more than she already was. She could deal with the fact that she had blacked out and had dreamed up a Terminator that happened to look like herself. It was merely the fear of being hurt by the carjacker, and somehow that had insinuated itself in her mind. She was certain there was some psychological phenomenon out there that explained that. Claire could also grudgingly admit to creating a robotic giant to save her from said killer (another function of the subconscious, of course), but the thing she could_ not_ handle was conversing with it. It had to go.

"Whatever. If you aren't leaving, I am. Screw this acid trip."

Its features registered what might have been confusion. "Why would you want to trip in acid?"

She just stared at it balefully. "Yeeeeahhh… like I said, I'm outta here."

"You're leaving after I saved your life, Claire?" The thing had a bass voice as one might expect from something of its stature and girth, but it wasn't an intimidating or booming modulation.

One eyebrow hooked high on her forehead. "You know my name?"

A pause, and then she snorted.

"Of course you would, duh. You know, I have to commend myself. I didn't know I was so creative that I would come up with a hallucination as crazy as you." She was prattling nervously now, a bit put off by the fact that the delusional world she had dreamt up hadn't yet collapsed around her so she could wake. A tiny worm of doubt started to crawl through her mind, whispering dangerous words.

_What if this is real?_

_Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif…_

Her head hurt again, reminding her that she had to wake up, soon. Before she could tell the giant off one final time, it took another step towards her. A quietly abrasive chatter of gears filled the air, adding to Claire's discomfiture. It knelt on one knee, resting its weight just above one of the window plates shielding its legs.

"I am called Smokescreen," it stated matter-of-factly. With its face lower, Claire could pick up more detail in its 'features'. Its 'eyes' would pulsate, growing larger and smaller as if dilating – or adjusting – to view the tiny human before it. This action alone created a small whirring noise, and Claire was vaguely reminded of the sound a camera made when focusing in on a subject. It was nearly the same noise.

"_Oooohh_ no," she held up a finger, wagging it in front of the leviathan. "You do not get a name. You are not naming yourself. That's over the top."

"I wasn't the one who gave me my name."

Claire's face flashed it a stricken glance.

_Oh god, __**please**__ do not let me lose it._

"OF COURSE NOT!" Claire threw up both arms helplessly. "I was! I named you! Some delusional section of my brain created you, and now you say you have a name. I did that! I've lost my marbles! The second step to insanity is naming the thing no one else can see! The _first_ is speaking to it!"

Silence filled the empty space between them after she stopped using the airwaves to let her paranoia be known.

Slowly, the thing –_Smokescreen_ – smiled.

"I am real."

_I am real. _The words ripped down her spine, tearing asunder any hope for reconciliation with the last of her sanity.

"N-n-no," she refused him, and took an unsteady step backwards.

The heavy weight of knowledge broadsided her, lifting the veil her mind had construed to keep her from crashing.

The universe shifted again. Some things were gained, and some lost forever. Ignorance was the one precious thing she could not regain.

She felt robbed.

"Wh-wh-what are you… wh-wh-wh-" No coherent sentence could be formed.

It seemed to understand this, and centered her with a look that might have been pity. "I am an Autobot. I found you because the Decepticons would have tried to first… and they nearly did."

"Dec… Dec… Autobot?" Her mind reeled.

"Yes, we're from another planet."

It was as if the world had been a droplet of water that had suddenly hit the ground, splashing apart all around her. There was nothing she could do to collect the fragments, to reunite the whole of the thing that had been taken from her.

This, she knew, was change in action. Fate, even.

It was too surreal for her to stand. Her breath was coming a little too quickly, and she consciously tried to slow her respiration. It was no use; her heart was pounding with her anxiety. She had been through so much in just one day.

Suddenly, she was acutely aware that she was so _very, very_ tired.

Despite the shock, the fear, the paranoia – her systems were beginning to shut down and the base need for sleep overrode all else.

She sank into the grass, on her knees. Thoughts of alien creatures and unknown worlds where man had never gone took a backseat to exhaustion. These thoughts skipped freely of her mind, and for once that night she felt just a little bit better.

"Tired," Claire mumbled.

The large Smokescreen thing was observing her like one would an interesting specimen. Its expression was unreadable. "You can go offline," it said idly. "They won't find you here."

_Offline._ It sounded like a nice place to be just then.

The world faded away as Claire lay down against a patch of scrub brush. It didn't necessarily blip out of existence until the last second, when enough of it had become incomprehensible to her senses.

Still, even as she lost herself to the safety of sleep, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was just finding another way to escape.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine. 

**A/N: **I just wanted to thank everyone for their reviews, you guys are great. You are what keeps me writing! Well… that and the story itself is pretty fun.

**Dandyparakeet**: Smokescreen is one of the original Transformers. He was a remodel of Bluestreak, and his alt mode was a Nissan Fairlady Z (Datsun in America). He was the 'deceiver' of the Autobots and usually ended up tricking the Decepticons in order gain the advantage. He was later remodeled into 2003 Suburu Impreza (this will come later in the story). He's a gambler and a cheater, and probably the most like a Decepticon out of all the Autobots.

I also want to thank** soaringphoenix86** for the in-depth reviews. You absolutely rock. ) I did have to look up how to apply a prosthesis, since I had no clue. I actually kind of spent some time agonizing over that part because I was sure someone out there would know how to put them on, and I somehow missed something somewhere. I'm glad that I got it right, thanks for letting me know!

To **Elita One**,** Rindesayu**, **Anita H**, **I play wid fir3**, and **The Greatest Boba Fett Fan**: Thank you so much for the reviews, guys. I really mean it. You guys keep me going, especially knowing you are following the story and enjoying it.

Also, for some reason, I did not have Anonymous Reviews enabled. Duurrrrr. It is now enabled, so **Anonymous Reviews can now be made. **

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**The Human Stain: Chapter 6**

_Would you mind if I killed you?  
Would you mind if I tried to  
Cause you have turned into my worst enemy?  
You carry hate that I feel  
It's over now  
What have you done_

_**- Within Temptation, What Have You Done**_

* * *

**Warning:** Some sexual references in this chapter, nothing too heavy.

* * *

_**The Pentagon, Washington D.C.**_

* * *

The man in the leather executive chair swung away from his desk, his brow deeply etched with worry. 

He held one hand to his face, pinching either side of his jaw between a thumb and forefinger as he read the stapled report contained in his opposite appendage. Deep in thought, he did not notice the soft knock on the door across the room.

The knock repeated itself, a bit louder, and the man raised his head.

"Come in," he invited with a deep baritone.

"General, I have more news." The oak door fell away, revealing a middle-aged man on the other side. He wore the trappings of the military, from the buzz cut down to the black boots that were currently carrying him across the expansive office.

"What now?" the older man questioned, rising from his chair with a grunt. His moustache twitched, perhaps in annoyance, but he waited for the younger male to speak before betraying his thoughts.

"It… you have to see this for yourself." Urgency hedged the man's voice, and he gave his superior a daunted look before producing a small memory stick from his front pocket.

"It's bad."

"Show me."

The younger man nodded, and padded across the expensive carpet to a digital projector mounted along the far wall. The lighting in the office was dim, matching with the traditional English furnishings – the cherry wood box panels on the walls, the Ottoman in the left corner – all of it seemed at odds with the self-propelled projector screen that slid out of a panel in the ceiling overhead.

General Richardson was a decorated four-star General currently in charge of the country's defense as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He directly advised the president in all military matters. The man that busied himself with the setting up the screen was Lieutenant General Meyers, an advisor himself to General Richardson.

Meyers inserted the memory stick into the digital movie projector's USB port, and then flicked off the lights. The room fell into complete darkness, interrupted only by the dim line of light from beneath the heavy wooden door leading to the hallway.

As the video started, General Richardson found himself pinching his jaw again. Tiny pictures reflected off his wide eyes from under the glow of the projector screen.

The scene that unfolded was reminiscent of the events that had escalated in Mission City. That whole Mission City business had been an embarrassment to the Armed Forces of the United States, really – all the way down to the lowliest private. Being gob smacked by alien entities was not in the charts for that year, or for any year, and it had shown in their preparedness. The civilians of Mission City had seen the NBE's – Non Biological Entities - up close and personal, and it was reeking of Roswell already. The damage had been quite extensive to the downtown area, and the cover up was thin at best. Convincing the citizens that it was nothing more than an erroneous training mission for new government technology nearly resulted in rioting. There had been eyewitnesses, people who had seen, heard, and captured it on cell phone cameras. There had even been a damn professional photographer there at the time snapping pictures that were later found circulating on the Internet. Citizens refused to listen, and had picketed outside of government offices nationwide. The Pentagon had seen the greatest crowd of all, and would have undoubtedly incurred the wrath of unruly masses had it not been surrounded by a well-guarded perimeter.

The media both participated with and acted against the government. CNN reported exactly what the White House released, but Internet bloggers and other independent media sources told another story. While conglomerate media outlets lulled the majority of the American public into a semblance of false security by adamantly shooting down reports of extraterrestrials, the uncontrollable private sector had flourished with tales of alien life. Berkeley liberals were in solid agreement with the artists in Greenwich Village, and even the flyover states had their fair share of believers.

The new technology was highly confidential, the government had claimed. They were test suits, with human pilots inside. The appearance of these new 'super soldier suits', as they were termed, was a grave error on the government's part. The coordinates given to the pilots were quite wrong, resulting in Mission City's demolition. The correct coordinates that would have left citizens out of danger during the 'training', which was really meant to be thirty miles south of the city, in a patch of undeveloped desert that held no inhabitants. The pilots of the suits had merely gotten out of control with one another, tempers flared, and they lost track of their location while sparring. Such things did happen – and to make up for it, all pilots involved in the incident had been suspended indefinitely.

"_I apologize deeply for the losses to Mission City_," the president had said, while being filmed shortly after the disaster. "_Be glad to know that your country is so far ahead in its defense capabilities. The public was not meant to know, but now that you do, I hope you feel that national security is a paramount concern under this administration._"

The gathered crowd had burst into approving applause.

That was two months ago. They mayor was given a hefty paycheck to nod and smile with this explanation, and all business owners within the city were also compensated fiscally for the damage their businesses took during the ensuing chaos. Any extra grievances were handled in much the same manner.

Still, the half-assed cover-up – and it _**was**_ half-assed, at least in Richardson's opinion - was not at a loss for disbelievers.

The scene flickering past his optic nerves now was shot from space, straight from the_ Orbiter 2, _a satellite launched earlier that year by the United States with the sole purpose of acting as a sentinel for asteroids. It gathered visual data before beaming it back to Earth, where it was then sorted and stored by scientists.

It had recorded something, indeed… several somethings, actually.

They were not asteroids – far from it.

"Dear god," the General said, his words hanging in the air. His mouth was suddenly dry.

They were reminiscent of the balls of fire that had showered the Earth before the Mission City incident, before the arrival of the NBE's. The only difference here was the sheer _number_.

He and Meyers exchanged glances across the dark room and then whipped their heads back at the video footage. Their mounting fear was palpable, filling the room with an apprehensive energy.

They streamed through space, hundreds, maybe thousands strong. There seemed to be no shortage. They all took the same path, followed the same route, and did not waver in their projections.

They were the transporters for the NBE's, and they were headed for planet Earth.

The aging General wiggled his tongue around in his mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to form words.

"_Get me the president,_" he finally rasped.

"Yes, sir!" Meyers affirmed, making a dive for Richardson's mahogany desk and the phone that perched atop it.

Suddenly, it struck the old General as odd that he was still holding onto the report on Mission City he had been reading before Meyers interrupted. In the shifting and scant lighting, he noticed the paper was the color of old bones.

General Richardson thought of his five-year-old granddaughter in North Carolina. A line of worry, unconscious, unbidden, seeped into his expression.

_New bones and old bones together are still bones, and no one is the wiser._

"Sir," Myers cut through his morbid thoughts, "I have him on line two."

The elderly man sighed mentally, and turned for the phone to break the news to the President of the United States.

Needless to say, the second call he made that morning woke up a little girl in North Carolina.

* * *

_**Boulder City, Nevada**_

* * *

Miguel Ramirez was in love. 

He had only been in love for five minutes, maybe less, but he was definitely infatuated.

The woman across from him was everything he wanted in a girl. Her black hair was pulled tight across her skull, ending in a long, high ponytail that brushed her ass when she walked. He knew this because he had been paying attention – he had been watching her all night.

It was Monday night at the Broken Spoke, a bar located on the outskirts of Boulder City. It was your typical bar, but catered more to the young single than any other age group. The bar was outfitted to appear as a saloon would in the old west. The décor consisted of various animal heads looking down their noses on the patrons. The floor was composed of scuffed floorboards, and the walls were of the same ilk. Even the restrooms were labeled with their respective titles to keep with the theme: _Cowgirls_ and _Cowboys_. The music was predictably country with perhaps a Latin song or two, but the live bands were usually good. It had a small dance floor, a pool table, jukebox and other necessary amenities that ensured the patrons kept coming back. The bar was a long counter stretching from one corner of the bar to the other. It was tended to by a variety of bartenders, some of which were young, attractive women.

There was an unofficial rule about hitting on the baristas, however. Crossing the line of indecency was liable to get you kicked to the curb – literally. Joe Rigazio, an Italian man of sketchy origins, was usually the one carrying you out by your collar. He was a burly man in his early thirties who probably spent four hours in the gym each day just to remind guys like Miguel who was in charge. He was pleasant as far as bouncers went if you didn't get on his bad side, and Miguel had made sure that he didn't.

But oh _orale_, the woman across from him was making him _caldufo_.

He had started the evening early by downing a few beers, eyes riveted to her the moment she walked through the door. She was alone (and thankfully not a barista), so luck seemed to be with him that night. Her body was curvy, thick in all the right places. Miguel was not attracted to smaller women. If he had been, he might have been more apt to chat up that Anglo he worked with – Claire. She was nice enough, maybe a bit too neurotic for his tastes, but she simply did not have the assets he appreciated in a woman. Furthermore, he was not in the habit of looking at gringas on a whole – he liked his Latinas.

After watching his zaftig goddess strut through the door in her daisy duke cutoffs and fire-engine red tube top, he knew it was too good to be true. He watched the mocha-skinned woman as she ordered herself a shot of tequila, and then he knew she was perfect. Their eyes met from across the counter, and he saw her dark eyes, heavy with mascara, flutter at his person. He watched her turn to survey the contents of the bar, of which there wasn't much, and that's when he noticed her booty.

_Por el amor de Dios_, he had thought.

He had left the bar, asked her if she would like another drink, and she had acquiesced to his offer with a sultry smile. Her pouty lips were the color of her tube top, and the large hoop earrings dangling from her ears winked at him under the track lighting. It just made her all the more dazzling, in his opinion.

Now, here they were, flirting away and quite buzzed. Miguel broke into English long enough to ask the bartender for another round of drinks, and the two picked up right where they left off. He told her his name, where he worked, and she did the same for him. From what he extracted during their discourse, he found that she too was the daughter of Mexican immigrants. Both had grown up translating between English and Spanish for their parents, which led to friction when they hit their teenaged years. Torn between their family's culture and the commercial culture in which they had been raised, the two found a common understanding of one another. They kept drinking, and their voices rose faster and louder above the music. The current band couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, anyways. He mentioned this to her, and she laughed and nodded.

Miguel dropped his gaze to her chest just as she took a sip of her drink and glanced over her shoulder to the band. A droplet of liquor had skimmed down the side of her glass before falling to the lower part of her chest. It slid in a tantalizing fashion over one of her breasts before dipping out of sight into the recesses of her cleavage.

"Oye!"

_Mierda._

She had noticed. His head whipped up so fast he thought he would break his neck in the process. Instead of the angry backlash he expected from being caught ogling her bosom, he was surprised to find he was being rewarded with a winning smile.

"¿A usted le gusta, _Señor Ramirez_?" she inquired sweetly.

He opened his mouth to reply, but unfortunately never got any further than that.

The windows blew in, followed by a sonic rush of air that preceded a thunderous explosion. Something slashed Miguel across the cheekbone, narrowly missing his left eye. It took a second to realize that it was a shard of glass.

Someone screamed, and the bartender's voice rose over the sudden hysteria. "**GET DOWN!**"

Miguel didn't have to be told twice. He dropped to all fours, noticing his new acquaintance had done likewise. They both stared at one another from a mere foot away, and both faces lit with shock. Something slick and liquid ran in a rivulet down Miguel's cheek, and he reached up to touch it.

His hand came away, slick and wet with his own blood. The woman, Teresa, saw it too.

He heard her gasp. "What is going on!?" she cried, speaking loudly in English. The switch she made between languages was instinctual, something he understood as a bilingual speaker. When addressing another Spanish speaker, the language of choice was Spanish. When more than one person might possibly have the answer to a question, the language changed to include a broader audience. Everyone within the bar was now involved as a whole unit against an unknown interference, and therefore the mindset of the bilingual speaker adjusted to accommodate that.

The building rocked, and the old groan of wood filled their ears. There was a fire outside, or a fire inside, Miguel could not tell which. A searing heat licked at the bare skin of his arms and face, and he could only imagine Teresa was feeling it tenfold – she was exposed far more than he was.

_**Ka-Chuck.**_ It was the unmistakable sound of someone loading a gun.

_Qué demonios pasa aquí?!, _Miguel's mind blared.

It was the bartender. He was standing now, holding an old rifle. He had the firearm pointed at the door, as if he expected someone or something to come barging through.

Shining motes drifted through the air channels, sparkling in the firelight from outside. Miguel recognized them for the danger they were, and clapped a hand over Teresa's mouth. He felt the moist press of her lips against his palm as she shot him a glare and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Try not to breathe and get out of here!" Miguel heard himself say to anyone within earshot. "There's tiny particles of glass in the air right now. You breathe it in, and it'll cut up your insides. Keep low to the floor!"

Some bar patrons murmured their understanding behind the hands that were now covering their mouths, which meant they heard him.

_**BOOM.**_

_**BOOM.**_

_**BOOM.**_

Something _**was**_ approaching the building. Something _very_ large and _very_ noisy. Were they under attack? Was it Mission City all over again? A chill ran down Miguel's spine, and he could feel Teresa shudder beneath his hand. He kept his freehand against his mouth, and then took his other back when Teresa supplied her own hand to cover her face. Once this was done, he jerked his head towards the back hallway where the restrooms were located.

There was an exit there; they just had to cross the dance floor to make it.

"AIN'T NOBODY MAKIN A MESS OF MY PLACE!" shouted the bartender, who was still standing behind the polished counter. He had the rifle sighted towards the front door as he hunkered over the scope. Miguel realized that he just might be the owner of the Broken Spoke himself.

The bar was steadily beginning to clear as people crawled along the floor towards rear fire exit. Miguel motioned Teresa along, avoiding broken glass where he could. The temperature within the place was climbing, and he could swear he heard the crack and hiss of flames just beyond the bar's wooden walls.

They were three-fourths of the way to the exit. Teresa had started to cry, making muffled moans as she traversed the dirty floor behind Miguel. Miguel, for his part, tried his best to comfort her. He gave her encouraging looks over his shoulder while verbally coaxing her to continue in Spanish. In that moment, he seemed the hero to Teresa – but in truth Miguel never felt more terrified in his life. He was a first generation American with immigrant parents, and he mixed paint for a living. He could tell you how to strip the paint off your walls and what product to do it with, but he couldn't save anyone's life.

He didn't think so until then, anyway.

The building swayed. It shouldn't have been possible, but it did.

The next thing that happened took both Miguel and Teresa's breath away.

First the building shook, then it rocked, and then it _cracked_. The sound was sickening. A deep fissure ran along the perimeter of the structure, and then the building was ripped from its foundation. The night air was suddenly upon them all, and they realized that they were inhaling smoke and cinders. A fire had climbed out of a nearby pit, and was currently consuming all the dead grass and scrub surrounding The Broken Spoke.

Miguel heard a gun go off, and someone was making a high keening sound. It was Teresa. Her eyes were on the sky, head knocked back. Miguel could only follow her horrified stare.

If he never saw something so indescribably chilling in his life again, he would consider himself a lucky man.

It stood over thirty feet tall. There were no defining characteristics about it that he could pinpoint, save for the way the brush fires reflected off its body. It seemed to be made of steel, a towering, twisting monstrosity of metal. It held the bar aloft, over its head. Miguel could make out blazing eyes, as red as the hide of El Diablo. Whatever it was, it looked exactly like the things in Mission City. He should know, he saw the cell phone videos on YouTube.

"GET OUT!" A scream tore its way out of Miguel's throat, and suddenly he was pulling Teresa up by her thicker hand. The two scrambled from the bar's foundation, blinded by the swirling smoke that shifted about their bodies. Shadows moved around them, figures of gray – the others.

Miguel knew they had to move. If this was new government technology, the human piloting it had gone haywire. The last thing Miguel had seen while the metal mammoth held the upper section of the bar was the bartender. He was standing against the titan, letting loose round after round. It wasn't even phasing the thing. It was a truly tremendous sight – the tiny dot of a man so swept up in his rage that he burned brightly with a bravado beyond his body.

It was epic, like David and Goliath. If Miguel had been watching the scene before his eyes as a movie, he would have been in awe at the raw magnitude of it. It imprinted itself as an image forever emblazoned in his brain.

He shook his head to rid himself of the mental image. Now was not the time to lose sight of the objective – saving his hide.

Oh, and Teresa's too. She had a rather nice one, and this whole mess would probably score him extra points with her… if they lived.

Miguel and Teresa ran, sprinted even. Teresa was fast for her size, and belied Miguel's expectations.

"Brace yourself!" he yelled. He anticipated the next threat, and hit the ground running once he and Teresa were clear of the property. They found themselves against the incline of a hill, and both dove into the dirt when the world exploded.

It hurt. Not necessarily the auditory challenge it presented – no, that hurt in another way – but the full spectrum was a terrible tangle of smells, sounds, feelings and sights. There was the smell of burning flesh, acrid and pungent. There was the sound that clapped hard against his eardrums, over and over with relentless menace. There was the sensation of incineration if he so much as tried to open his eyes, even a little. Teresa was screaming, but it seemed to him a trifle, nothing quite noteworthy. His senses expounded upon him a rush of things he could not possibly sort through all at once, and therefore his mind simply shut off.

Before he lost consciousness, his mind's eye once more played back the defiant physique of the bartender with his rifle, standing against El Diablo while the fire raged around them. He saw the moment before the metal hellion raised what had once been the bar over his steel cranium.

Miguel remembered the eyes. Oh, _Dios_, he always would.

The titan had put the building back down in the last second, giving back what he had taken. He had crushed the owner of The Broken Spoke as he slammed the structure back into the Earth. Things imploded, and the man's spirit had fled his mortal coil when bones broke and flesh caught fire.

The man was dead, but Miguel's last, fleeting thought centered on how his bravery would remain ingrained forever in his mind. It would take the revered place of something he could never hope to have.

The man's consciousness abruptly died, and his senses disappeared with it.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine. 

**A/N: **The plot begins to unfold! Sorry for the slow start, I needed to establish the main characters before really going into the larger scheme of things. As many of you probably already noticed, this story leans heavily on the human side of things (hinted at in the title), so it's mainly told through the experience of the humans within it as they interact with the Transformers. More to the point, it's a 'What would your normal, everyday earthlings do' (WWYNEED?) if crossed with the world of the Transformers.

What does Smokescreen have to do with Claire? Why is Claire important, and why did a Decepticon take human form – hers of all people? What will happen now that there are more transporters headed for Earth? What does it all mean!?

Well, you'll see. It'll all make sense as it goes, trust me.

Please R&R if you feel so inclined!

To clear up a few things for the Miguel scene, I'll translate the Spanish slang for you guys:

_Orale_: This is like saying, 'yeah' in English. It's a slang word for yes.

_Caldufo_: This is slang for horny, or hot.

_Anglo_: Standard term for someone with European ancestry, or Anglo-Saxon.

_Gringa/Gringo_: Spanish term for a white person.

_Por el amor de Dios: _For the love of God.

_Oye_: Spanish slang for 'Hey!'.

_Mierda_: Spanish slang for 'shit'.

_¿A usted le gusta, Señor Ramirez?_: Polite way of saying, "Is it pleasing to you, Mr. Ramirez?" – spoken formally to tease Miguel.

_Qué demonios pasa aquí?!_: Spanish for, "What the hell is going on here?!".

_El Diablo_: The Devil.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**The Human Stain: Chapter 7**

_It's the perfect time of year  
Somewhere far away from here  
I feel fine enough, I guess  
Considering everything's a mess_

_**- Barenaked Ladies, Pinch Me**_

* * *

_o..Before she existed here, she existed before, in memory..o_

* * *

She is standing in the Santa Cruz High parking lot, a place she hadn't been in a great while. She is sixteen, nearly seventeen now. These things she knows just as much as she knows her own name.

"Claire."

Claire turns, seeking the one who sundered the silence. The sun is bright in her eyes and she blinks rapidly.

"Jen?" Her voice doesn't echo across the lot, instead, it is swallowed by the sunlight, seamlessly slipping into eerie silence.

"You can do it."

Claire glances down at her new plastic leg, surprised to find that she is surprised to see it. How did…

_Oh…_

A switch goes on in her head, and it is suddenly clear why.

"I c-can't go in," Claire stammers, "I'm not the same. They will point and stare."

"You haven't changed," her best friend says, stepping closer.

"I'm not good enough," she insists desperately, "I can't face them, I don't have a choice."

There were always choices, and none of them easy, but she had always known that.

_There is still time to walk away._

Her brain goes cold.

Jen's smile is slow and simple. The brunette shakes her head, and Claire wonders why her childhood friend seems so much _older_.

"You're holding on too hard." The meaning doesn't seem to apply to returning to school anymore, but there is no quick answer as to why this is so. Her mind is foggy.

"Why are you here?"

"…For you."

"I've never done anything like this before. How will I know what to do?"

Jen cocks her head to one side, and a waterfall of hair streams over one shoulder.

"But you have. That's why we're here."

_That's why we're here._

The words were familiar, even if Jen's placid expression wasn't.

Claire stares at nothing, all the memories flooding down, threatening to sweep her away, the memory of loss, and then the memory of the present, and then the memory of _before_, and –

_o...o_

* * *

Claire woke up before the sun.

A cool breeze blew across her skin, drying the sweat of fear that had bubbled up as she dreamed.

Processing her senses into some semblance of order, the woman grimaced when she moved. She was layered in a thin sheen of perspiration from head to toe, the product of night sweats. Her pajamas were sticking to her in stiff patches, breaking only when she moved her aching limbs. In short, she felt pretty disgusting. She needed to pee quite badly, and a shower wouldn't hurt. The results of last night's events hit her like a slap upside the head, and she ran a frustrated hand through her matted hair. Oddly enough, it wasn't panic or a barrage of solutions that first came to mind.

_I bet I smell something awful._

Bracing herself for the worst, she raised one arm and smelled the concave area just below her left shoulder.

_Affirmative, Captain._

Scrunching her nose and sighing in defeat, Claire glumly lanced her gaze over at the source of her frustration. The Datsun was once again nothing more than a vehicle sitting solidly upon all four wheels like cars did. For a split second, she felt a small hope flicker within her that there was nothing amiss, and that all should be as it should.

_Why were you sleeping out here, then?_

Good point.

Pulling herself to her feet, Claire attempted to dust herself off when a dull pain coursed its way up her nervous system. The bleeding on the sole of her foot had long since crusted over, but standing had reopened the wound. Great, just great.

"I need to go home," she said suddenly. Yes, it was quite possible home was no longer a safe place, but she would take her chances. There was no way she was going around like she was, simply no way.

As if on cue, the car – Smokescreen, was it? – replied to her. "They know to find you there now."

A cacophonous quiet settled between them, and Claire could hear a coyote declare his presence somewhere along the western range. From her right, she could hear the steady din of cars. A highway was nearby, which indicated people were as well. If there were people, there weren't shapeshifting cars.

Well, possibly. It was also possible too that those people weren't really people – maybe they were all transforming androids like the thing from last night.

The world seemed to rise all around her, swallowing the shadows of all that seemed safe. She was underneath a warming sky, but there was neither shade nor shelter from the harsh reality she found herself left with.

She was wracking her brains swiftly, trying to think of a response that wasn't as disheartening as what she was really thinking when Smokescreen started his engine.

"I don't care," she finally said. A rattle of sound escaped her lips as she breathed out a sigh. "Why did that … Decepta-whatever try to kill me? Did you know it was coming?"

"I will attempt to inform you of everything in due time."

"Why not now?"

"Because…" it began.

Claire suddenly cut the car off.

"I need to go to the bathroom." Some part of her was still in some suspension of disbelief that she was talking to something-that-should-not-be. Not only that, she had just told it she had to find a toilet.

"Bathroom?" it questioned, and there was a bad moment when Claire thought she would have to explain herself. Heat rose in her neck, flushing the skin beneath her dirt-caked cheeks. Her modesty was just about to be impugned upon.

It didn't allow her enough time, however.

"Oh," Smokescreen rumbled.

"Oh?" she said, turning his single word into a query.

"I just looked it up. I would have rather gone on in my own ignorance, but we can't have everything," the car remarked dryly.

She was going to die. "You just looked it up?"

"I am connected to your Internet."

Claire wanted to dig herself a deep hole and never emerge. "What did you…"

"It was an instructional video for sparklings of your species."

The thin line of Claire's mouth stretched tight and pulled down. She did not know what a 'sparkling' was, but the context gave her a pretty good idea. "Eh…" Her face was on fire.

"It seems to be a very private matter to you humans, yet you go into great depth about various aspects of it. You put all knowledge possible pertaining to it on your Internet, but you seem to find it disquieting now. You are very contradictory creatures, you know."

She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes and leveled the car with a dark look. Her embarrassment began to seep out of her stiff shoulders, leaving her a bit miffed. The way the car went on made her sound like some curious zoological organism. She was a person, damnit, and she would make it see that.

"Don't call_ me_ contradictory, Franken-car."

"Franken-car? An interesting conjunction." The motor continued to run steadily, uninterrupted. Several seconds slipped by, as if it were thinking or browsing 'their Internet', and then it did the unexpected.

The windshield wipers arced, making a single pass.

There wasn't a drop of water in the sky. Claire glanced up, ascertained the burgeoning dawn was a cloudless one, and then lifted an eyebrow at Smokescreen. It took several moments for her mind to process what it might have meant by its strange action, and then it hit her like a brick.

The damn car had just done the equivalent of an eyeroll.

Of course, in vehicle form it did not have eyes. – but this was just something that could be worked around.

"Did you just…"

"I find your creativity lacking." It sounded bored.

"Look, I _never_ said I was creative."

"Yes, you did," Smokescreen countered.

Stumped, she dropped the accusing digit she had been sticking in its general direction. After rewinding through a bit of their conversation yesterday, she made a strangled sound from somewhere in her throat. "That's because I thought you were something that my mind made up, because this WHOLE THING is surreal!"

"What is so unbelievable?"

She gave a derisive snort. "You're talking, for one."

"I find it more compelling that I would have the capacity for language when compared to a pulsating muscle locked inside a calcium container."

Flustered and having no recourse for that statement, she aimed low. "Y-you're such an _asshole_!"

"On the contrary, I would feel it more appropriate that you carried that designation."

"_What!?_"

"It's simple. You have one, I do not. And, if I am correct, you need to use it."

It took her all of eight seconds to pop her jaw shut after that.

* * *

They drove along in silence. Claire had her hands crossed over her chest in the driver's side seat while she seethed. She refused to talk to the thing, or even acknowledge it existed save for the fact she was sitting in it as it drove. At first it had been rather unsettling to watch the steering wheel move of its own accord, but her continuing anger overrode any qualms her sensibilities presented after a minute or two.

She hadn't known it very long – and she used the word 'it' as anyone rightly should – after all, it was a machine. Machines did not have genders. She had read about a robot that was created in the likeness of a Japanese female once, but it didn't make it female. Claire did not care how many life-like qualities they gave it; it didn't have hormones or a reproductive system. Smokescreen sounded male, but it was all an illusion – just like the Japanese robot. It seemed to have a keen intelligence, and she briefly mused over what built it. It had called itself an Autobot, from what she recalled – what was the higher creator that molded them? Was it an alien? One of flesh and blood? Why would the giant car talk so casually of 'fleshlings' if it was? It would seem to her offensive to the one that made it.

Then again, this_ Smokescreen_ seemed to be an offensive entity by his very nature. What kind of name was that, anyways? It made her feel slightly better in a most peevish way to think his name stupid. It sounded like something you would set up in a fireplace, anyway.

Her eyes were drawn out the driver's side window, and she watched the lines of scenery blur by. They had pulled onto the highway just as the sun was coming up, and no one had suspected anything amiss. The cars and trucks they passed were all given suspicious appraisals by Claire, even while she refused to talk to the alien life form encasing her in its cab. She had many biting questions at the back of her brain, each begging in its own way to be answered. There were so many things she did not understand, but she felt she would in time – but the problem was not the time, it was the lack of it. Both then and now, the world seemed shattered and poorly glued together, almost as if it was an accident and someone was trying to cover it up. No one noticed that everything was suddenly off-kilter, but she did. No one could point out the fault lines suddenly running through her life, the fractured edges where everything had broken apart.

But Claire could see them.

The need to urinate was growing stronger by the second, and she did not know where Smokescreen was taking her. She just knew that it knew that time was of the essence.

"We had better be heading for my house. Are we almost there?" The clichéd question that popped from between her lips earned her another pass of the windshield wipers.

Balling her hand into a fist, Claire brought the lower end down hard on the dashboard. "Stop that!"

"Why?" The question was genuinely curious, and he seemed unphased by the blow.

"Because it's rude," she supplied.

"As is striking the one transporting you. I know humans are subject to violent tendencies, but…"

"I'll show you violent…"

She would have said more, but something stopped her mouth from forming the rest of her sentence.

The scene that unfolded through the driver's side window was quite chaotic. Rubble littered a square patch of land where she had known a small bar to have existed. She couldn't quite recall the name of it, but she had passed it by several times since moving to Nevada. It had recently been renovated, upgraded from the status of hole-in-the-wall to happenin'-hot-spot, if there were such places in Boulder City.

Now, though – it was just a fractured mess of wood, concrete, glass and other objects strewn in disarray about the landscape. Small pit fires burned in spots where the debris was piled the highest, and Claire could make out the imprint of the building's foundation at the center of the mess. Oddly, there was a deep orifice nearby the remnants of the foundation, almost as if someone was digging a deep pit next to the building. The cavity was still smoking, leading her to wonder. It was like ground zero, and she could only reason that the bar's boiler had exploded during the night.

_I hope everyone got out safely._

There were people present, too. Flashing lights sat beneath three ambulances, two fire trucks, and at least five police cruisers. What looked like battle-worn refugees congregated in close clusters, speaking animatedly with officers. Claire was surprised to find that Smokescreen had slowed, but upon looking forward she could see why. The sparse traffic along the highway had created a blockage as people slowed to gawk. The car ahead of the Datsun was inching along at less than five miles an hour as it passed through. Some small part of Claire was thankful for this, and she indulged her curiosity by staring out at the scene once more.

"I wonder what happened," she asked quietly.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," came her answer.

"You know?!" Eyes widening, the young woman straightened in her seat and tapped the steering wheel. "Do tell!"

"You humans are really a nosey lot."

Irritated, Claire chuffed. "You are not helping."

"I never claimed I would."

They began to speed up as the drivers ahead of them lost sight of the fiasco, and Claire was just about to slump down in defeat when something – no, someone – caught her eye.

Miguel.

She would know his face from anywhere – the tanned skin, the shock of blue-black hair. His angular features and aquiline nose suggested at a more Spanish ancestry than anything else, and it was all these things that led her to recognize him. He was standing next to the road, along the shoulder where the asphalt turned to gravel. Next to him was a plump woman who made the Boyd men look positively waifish. Both Miguel and the woman wore the expressions of holocaust survivors. They were slumped slightly forward, as if standing straight caused them a great deal of discomfort.

"Stop."

"Why?"

"Just do it, okay? I know that man." She pressed a finger to the driver's side window, and leaned her face close to the glass.

The engine sputtered like a first-generation Ford Model T. "You're secreting oil all over me!"

"Slow down or I'll breathe all over you too." Her lips were dangerously close to the window.

That brooked no argument. The engine made a high, tinny sound before pulling to the side and slowing to a stop. Claire leaned away from the glass, satisfied with the result, and opened the door. The car's exhaust was emitting charcoal-gray smoke in noxious clouds, and she faintly wondered if Smokescreen was acting huffy.

No matter.

"Miguel!" she held up one hand. The Hispanic man turned, eyeing her with a weary look. He did not appear to make the connection in his mind immediately, but as she stepped closer realization dawned on his haggard face. She noticed that he had a deep scar streaked across one cheek. His skin was darker than normal, and it took her a moment to see why – he was coated in ash.

"_Claire…?!_" he said in disbelief.

She limped to a halt a few feet away, still favoring her prosthesis.

Time skipped a beat, and then Miguel filled the pregnant pause before she could. "You look like hell."

She was about to say the same of him. Glancing down at her dirty pajama top and bottoms, she lost herself to a nervous laugh. She had been so concentrated on how bad _he_looked that she hadn't factored in how she might appear.

It was like some big, cosmic joke. Someone up there was getting his jimmies out of this.

"I've been through hell," she said solemnly.

"Us too," he agreed, gesturing to the woman next to him. "This is Teresa, she was with me when The Broken Spoke… broke."

"Nice to meet you," the short woman next to him offered. She had the same sort of accent Miguel had – nothing thick, but there was a resonant quality that bespoke of their Latin origins.

Claire began to work her fingers through her scraggly hair, attempting to straighten it. She was barefoot, dirty, and she smelled bad – but suddenly it became inanely important that her hair was free of knots. Nodding to Teresa, Claire once more returned her focus to Miguel's weary face. A deep line had been created in the space between his thick eyebrows, and Claire wondered if he would ever be able to rid himself of it.

"What happened here? It broke…?"

"It…" Miguel trailed uncertainly, trading a quick look of indecisiveness with Teresa. They both seemed very troubled by something.

"It…" Claire encouraged him on.

"It's too_ loco_. I don't even think I remember it right," Miguel said helplessly.

Claire fell silent. It sounded quite consistent with what she would like to tell him.

It was Teresa piped up next. "It was a monster." Her voice was grave and thin, eyes downcast. Somehow, that explanation was all Claire needed.

"Was it about my height, looked kind of like me? Metal talons, like Freddy Krueger?"

She could not possibly expect the backlash that she received for that.

Miguel was not amused. "What the hell, do you think this is some joke to us!?" he spat in disgust. "This really happened. We really saw something. If you're not here to help, I think you'd better go."

Both of them were glaring at her, and it took Claire a moment to realize that they might have encountered something besides her killer clone. Her face registered surprise.

_Wait, that means there are more than just…_

"Leave us alone." Miguel was turning away, one hand slung over Teresa's low shoulders.

"Wait!" Claire lunged forward, encircling her hand around Miguel's free bicep. "I didn't mean to come across as sarcastic, I mean that…"

"What did you mean, Claire?" Miguel glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed and dangerous.

"I mean that I saw something that looked like that. It tried to kill me. What did you see?" Her gray eyes met his brown ones, entreating upon him to hear her out. There was a certain hopelessness to the way she held on to his arm, as if losing whatever tenuous experience they both shared during that night was the last thing they should do.

Slowly, his body followed the direction of his head. Teresa, by extension, also turned on her heel and faced Claire once more. The woman was still staring at the ground. "You're serious?"

Claire nodded, once.

"You know how_ fucking nuts_ that sounds, right?" he continued.

Again, she nodded.

"I wouldn't be even close to believing you if I hadn't been through that shit last night."

Teresa began to tremble, a fine shake that shivered through her body quivered her lower lip. "It was _El Diablo_," she whispered.

"Might have been," Miguel agreed. "Whatever it was, it was huge. It picked The Spoke right off the ground and threw the entire thing on top of the owner. He had a gun, he tried to shoot at it…" Miguel paused and his eyes momentarily lost focus. He was still looking at Claire, but not at her – through her. He was seeing something else. He stayed like this a second longer, and then suddenly jerked. "Didn't do a damn thing," he finished. "We ran for it, and woke up later on the side of a hill. That's when the cops started showing up."

Claire listened to Miguel in disbelief. "Are you sure?" she questioned when he finished.

He gave a simple nod. "Unless I got hit with something and dreamt it all… but, the thing is…" he glanced down to Teresa as he said it, "she saw it too. Everyone did." One of his calloused hands swept outward towards the larger mass of people still gathered around the emergency vehicles. Claire, Miguel and Teresa stood twenty feet away from them, but even with the distance Claire could not mistake the doubt in the voices of the officers or the panic in the eyes of the witnesses.

"I think I know what that was," Claire finally said.

Miguel had followed her gaze, but whipped his head around when he heard this. "You've seen metal giants too?"

"Yeah, I guess I have. I'll explain… in the car." Her tenor turned cryptic. "Do you guys have a ride?"

"Naw, my truck and her car were completely destroyed. We were going to call for a ride."

"I'll drive you," Claire offered.

"That would be great," he said. He sounded exhausted.

It was about then that Claire remembered that the Datsun was a two-seater, and this realization made her curse aloud. "Oh, wait, I forgot… my car can only fit - "

About the same time, she had been turning around to regard said car – only it wasn't the way she had left it.

There, in the place she had left the 1979 Datsun, was a 2003 four-door Subaru Impreza.

" – four people," she finished with a wheeze.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N: **This was a fun chapter for me, especially the beginning. I like how Smoke and Claire's relationship is forming… or maybe how it's taking a sudden nosedive. Either works. At any rate, I just type as I go and the characters 'tell' me how they would react to their interaction with one another. Their conversation in this chapter just had me grinning.

**Dandyparakeet:** Starscream's Army? Maybe. Possibly. Maybe not completely. Maybe not at all. Who knows? Oh, wait, I guess I should… hm.. well in that case I guess I'll just refrain from comment. XD Claire wasn't in this chapter because I will be going into scenes with other characters when the plot requires it. Claire is the main character, but she's not the _only_ character. Other characters like Miguel, General Richardson, Mick Boyd and his sons all shape the story in important ways. I can't leave them out!

**soaringphoenix:**How is my favorite firebird today! Lolz. I like that someone else likes what I'm doing with this too – I could do cut scenes to transformers, but I do not plan to. The only way the inner workings of the transformers will be revealed is through the eyes of humans. If there isn't a human in the room, I'm not writing a scene. It's kind of my personal challenge in this story, and it keeps you all wondering, so… yeah. As for your question about Smokescreen… well, he's an underdeveloped character that never really showed up much in the original series. He's had several incarnations since then as Transformers took different shapes, but no on really pinned down who he was. I wanted to play with that – besides that, he's a cheater, gambler and will go to any lengths to win. He's very Decepticonish, which appealed to me. I may be working towards an anti-hero status with him, I'm not sure. It depends on what he wants to do.

**The Toe of Sauron: **Thanks for coming out of stealth mode, I appreciate it. ) I do go into flowery descriptions now and then, I'll admit to it. I do it because I'm dealing with emotional, needy human creatures prone to violent tendencies (Smoke said it best). I also like dealing with subtext in a story (might have something to do with my name), so I factor that in too. I like speed and realism, though, don't get me wrong. Suedom is not in the cards for me, and let me know if I am straying that way. I don't want any of my characters to be favored by me, especially Claire. I have two working legs, so when I made Claire I had to figure out something important that would impact the story later with her (the prosthesis, of course, but I'm not telling you why)! I like the 'terminator' idea too, which is why I ran with it.

**Rindesayu and Elita One**: Thanks so much for the reviews you have been giving me, it means so much! I live off the feedback. If you do not feed me I shall shrivel up and die. Rindesayu and Dandyparakeet both are wondering about those incoming transformers. You'll just have to keep reading to see. ) Thanks again!

Thanks to everyone who has given me feedback. If you haven't yet, please feel free! Long A/N this time. I'm going to have to cut that down for the next chapter. I'm taking tomorrow off, so I'll resume updates on Monday!

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**The Human Stain: Chapter 8**

_ I'm waking up at the start of the end of the world,  
but its feeling just like every other morning before,  
Now I wonder what my life is going to mean if it's gone,_

_The cars are moving like a half a mile an hour if that,  
and started staring at the passengers who're waving goodbye  
can you tell me what was ever really special about me all this time?_

_**-Matchbox 20, How Far We've Come**_

* * *

Miguel Ramirez was still in love, but he wasn't thinking about it at the moment. 

He had taken up the offer of that Walters woman, and the three of them had piled into a car he had never seen her drive before. He knew her to drive an Eclipse of some inconsequential year, but he had never seen her drive something like _this_.

It was bright blue with splashes of yellow, tricked out to the max. He loved his trucks, but never really knew his cars. Thankfully, this one helped him out

In neon yellow letters, the word **SUBARU** was painted across the front hood. Beneath that, in smaller but no-less-yellow writing, was 'World Rally Team'. There was a large '8' painted on the top of the car as well as the side doors, and the windows were tinted so dark that it became a challenge to peer into the interior. The vehicle had a ridiculously large spoiler, as well as a hood scoop that he doubted was real. The paint job was custom and striking. Yellow stars and other curving figures decorated the car's sides, and decaling covered nearly every solid inch of free space. The entire car was flawless, a showroom quality that didn't exist on outdoor cars.

Teresa was observing the car thoughtfully. He felt her still beneath his arm and cease any forward movement. He didn't blame her, the car was amazing.

If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn the gringa had stolen the car from a rally track somewhere. It seemed a bit out of place amongst the mono color automobiles that crawled by it. If he had been paying even more attention, he would have noticed how a few of the passing gawkers lost interest in the remnants of The Broken Spoke and instead fixated on the Subaru.

"Whoa, Walters, where did you get this!?" he exclaimed.

"I'm not sure," she muttered.

"What?"

"Hm? Oh…" she looked lost in thought, almost as if she had been studying the car as closely as he had. She made a simple rotation of her hand, as if trying in vain to conjure an explanation out of thin air. "It's… it's a loaner."

"Who loans out _these_?"

"Uh… long story. I'll tell you about it later," she muttered. She opened the driver's side door, and slid inside. Miguel offered Teresa the passenger seat, and then took the back for himself. The car shuddered, something he never felt a car do, and the blonde woman up front hadn't even put the key into the ignition yet.

"Deal with it!" Claire groused, while smacking the dashboard with the palm of her hand.

"What was that?" It was Teresa. The larger woman was eyeing the smaller one across from her with a wary eye.

Claire flashed Teresa an apologetic smile. "Sorry, it has a few quirks." Her voice was hasty, even as the vehicle gave a discontent rumble as the engine started.

Odd, he hadn't seen her put in any keys.

He was about to question her about this overlooked step when the radio came alive and a song began.

"_Ah, dirrty (dirrty)  
Filthy (filthy)  
Nasty, you nasty (yeah)  
Too dirrty to clean my act up  
If you ain't dirrty.."_

Claire hastily slapped at the radio dial. Redman and Christina Aguilera's whispered voices fell away before the song could proceed further.

"What was _that_?!"

Claire pointed sheepishly down at the CD slot. "Uh… it's broken. Turns on when it wants to. I swear this car has a life of its own sometimes." Her last sentence was muttered.

Teresa made a '_hmmm_' sound.

Miguel noticed the white-knuckled grip she kept on the steering wheel. She did not relax her hold even as they pulled into traffic.

* * *

Oh, the _nerve_. 

She wanted to ream it by its radiator and curb-stomp the carburetor. She was in enough duress, couldn't it see that?

Smokescreen had gone out its way to pull another fast one on her. Claire had nearly had a heart attack when she turned around to find the dirty Datsun had shifted into a slick Subaru.

_Does that mean it can take any shape it wants?_

How was that even possible? She had never seen it shift forms – she had always been looking away or asleep. It was like magic. _Poof, presto-chango_!

She was still bewildered by the time they pulled up into Miguel's driveway. The entire car ride had been a quiet one. Claire did not appreciate the fact that Smokescreen had cringed when all the filthy humans with their leaking, sweaty bodies had piled into its cab. It had voiced its displeasure quite plainly through the radio, something she was now clued into. It had such an unpleasant personality. She didn't know why she was even associating with it.

Oh, right - because she had been forced to.

Claire shook her head. The more she interacted with the thing, the more she began to give it human qualities. Robots might be programmed to be unpleasant, but they were not that by choice. They could not change their personalities, just as they could not change their outer appearances…

_Damn, but he did._

_He_. The gendered pronoun sauntered across her mind, skipping and wheeling. She did not just think that.

_No, no, no_.

Smokescreen sounded male, sure, but he – _it_ – was merely communicating through a voice recorder or computer that mimicked the deep baritone of the male gender. Nothing more, nothing less. To think otherwise was misleading.

Shaking her head as if to clear it again, Claire exited the Subaru. She gave it a quick once-over as if to ascertain to herself that it was indeed still a Subaru, or a car for that matter, and then turned away.

Miguel's two bedroom home sat on a quiet street. It was a southwestern style split-level with a two car garage. It had vaulted ceilings and a patio made of mosaic tiles, but was otherwise unremarkable. Once inside, Claire immediately took note of the potted cactus adjacent to the door.

"Hey, Miguel? Before we sit down and hash out the gritty details, do you mind if I use one of your bathrooms?"

"Sure," he replied without hesitation. All three of them were in bad shape, and all three wanted to remedy that as soon as possible. "There's a bathroom down the hallway to the left." He turned to the woman that Claire began to think of as her coworker's girlfriend. He spoke more softly to her than he had to Claire, and completely in Spanish at that.

Teresa gave a grateful nod, gave him a weak smile and removed her shoes. She stepped past them both, and disappeared down the hallway.

"She's using the master bathroom. I'll wait out here until one of you is finished."

"That's really nice of you."

He gave a short rise and fall of his shoulders. "Not a problem."

Claire had no need to remove any shoes. Buying new shoes always caused her to gripe – she paid double when she only needed one of the pair. Eventually she wizened up to the idea that she should only purchase shoes when they became ½ off. She was still being charged full price for one shoe but at least she wasn't getting charged double. When there was a sale on shoes, Claire was sure to be there.

"Thanks, Miguel." That said, Claire turned the corner like Teresa had seconds earlier. The moment Miguel could no longer see her was the moment she went from a casual walk to a desperate lope. She lunged into the small bathroom, shut the door, and began to unzip her jeans.

_Finally._

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Claire finished showering. There was an unforeseen issue (alright, she _should_ have foreseen it, but she hadn't thought that far in advance) that arose. She had no clothes. She had the grungy pajama set, but that was the last thing she wanted to put back on. The blonde woman finished drying herself off with the white towel she found on the rack next to the shower and then wrapped it around her midsection. She found a box of band-aides in the medicine cabinet, and helped herself to one of them. 

After applying the band-aide to the sole of her good foot, Claire crept up to the bathroom door. The flimsy door was the kind made with the wood-grain pattern stamped into composite, something she knew by touch. The assistant manager of Ashbury Paints might have been an overbearing presence within the workplace, but he made sure to educate his employees on the various surfaces that customers routinely painted over. Certain materials called for different primers. You wouldn't use the same paint and primer over a new wall made of sheetrock as you would the aging exterior of a barn. It was these little things that made them the 'paint experts', as Zebrowski so grandly put it.

She must truly be paranoid if she was checking out the sturdiness of Miguel's doors. After the 'attack of the clone', she had reason to be.

"Hey, Miguel?" she ventured uncertainly. She had cracked the egress open a notch, just enough that her voice would carry.

No answer.

Widening the aperture just a tad more, Claire tried again. "Miguel? You there?" She hadn't fully stepped out into the hallway yet, but it might not be an option much longer. When there still wasn't a response, she grumbled and shut the door to apply her prosthesis. She had washed parts of the thing in the tub to clean it off before she showered, which was a necessary evil. Her bra and underwear had joined the leg as well, and were only partially dry by the time she got out of the shower. These she had put back on with a grimace, but it would have to do.

Putting on the prosthesis didn't take her long, but she had to let go of the towel long enough to move through the steps while sitting on the toilet seat. After securing her towel once more, she hobbled a few times to the door and then found her stride. Like last time, she cracked the door open and called both Miguel and Teresa's name. And, like last time, she went unrewarded.

Claire moved the door aside enough that she could slip through. Her mismatched legs carried her through the hallway, out to the middle of the living room. From the front door, the house opened up into a foyer that extended into the den and further still into an open kitchenette. From her vantage point, Claire could see the Subaru still parked out in the driveway through the house's bay window. There was no one out there, unless you counted Smokescreen.

And, of course, she would not. Robots did not count.

Turning to the left, she steered her eyes over and out past the sliding screen doors that led to the patio. Relief flooded her body, only to be replaced by embarrassment. Miguel was currently in a state of lip lock with Teresa. They had closed the sliding glass door, which effectively cut them off from her calls. Teresa had changed into one of Miguel's oversized t-shirts. It hung so low on the short woman that it hemmed at her knees. If she was wearing anything in the way of shorts beneath it, Claire couldn't tell.

No, correction – she simply did not want to _know_.

Still, it would be nice to secure something in the way of clothing for herself. Forcing the butterflies in her stomach down, Claire cleared her throat and ambled across the room. She balled one fist and rapped it against the glass.

The two broke apart instantly, even though Teresa's lips were still pursed as both sets of eyes settled upon the source of the intrusion. Claire couldn't tell which was worse – having Miguel see her in nothing but a towel or the fact that she had interrupted them.

Mouthing, 'mind if I open this?' and pointing down at the locking mechanism simultaneously, she only proceeded to slide the door aside when she was given a nod to go ahead.

"Sorry," she announced timorously, "but do you have an extra shirt or something I could borrow? I didn't… I didn't mean to…"

"No, it's totally okay," Miguel replied quickly, seemingly abashed. Let me rustle you up something quick." He stepped around Claire, purposely avoiding her eyes.

After Miguel left, Claire dragged her gaze back to Teresa in shame. "Hey, sorry, I didn't want to… but…"

Oddly enough, Teresa did not look perturbed in the slightest. "I understand," she said in an easy way, just as Miguel reappeared with a blue t-shirt and a pair of men's jeans.

"Try these."

"Thanks so much!" She could have hugged him – but Teresa would probably not like a damp, semi-naked woman doing that right in front of her. In any case, she did not see anything in Miguel past their precarious friendship. Snatching up the bundle of clothes, Claire got the hell out of dodge – but not before checking the time on the microwave as she made a pass by the kitchen.

**7:00 a.m.**

She had to be to work by 8:00, but for some reason she thought she would be calling in sick instead.

Claire would also bet her life that Miguel would do likewise – and, by token of these actions, Zebrowski would not be pleased.

* * *

After dressing, Claire knew two things to be fact. The first was that Miguel had a 32" waist, or did. 

The second was that she was psychic.

"I called in," he told her when she came back into the living room.

"I figured you would. I need to call in yet too." His jeans fit her in an awkward fashion, but were for the most part baggy. The blue t-shirt had a noveau-art palm tree on the front and wasn't much different from Teresa's – it slung low and ended at mid-thigh.

_I feel so gangsta_, she thought peevishly.

Miguel was seated at an old computer tucked into the corner of his living room. She wondered why she hadn't seen it before. Teresa was nowhere in sight, and Claire reasoned that she must have gone back into the bathroom.

"You won't believe this." Miguel was all too happy to ignore the fact that she had approached him in a towel, and so was she.

Claire stepped closer to him. He sat facing away from her, intent on what he saw on the screen. "I just checked to see what they were saying about The 'Spoke. They are calling it an 'unexplained explosion'."

Claire's brow dipped low on her forehead at that. "Well, it's partially true…"

"It's not unexplained, though." Miguel pushed away from the computer desk contemptuously. He sat up quickly, surprising her. His voice was rising. "We all damn well saw the thing, but they won't publish that."

The woman wearing his clothes widened her eyes incrementally at the justified anger behind his words. He was tense, humming with an energy that knew no good output. Claire peered past him, zooming in on the monitor. He had been reading the online version of the _Boulder City News._ Indeed, the blown-up bar was the top article. She scanned it briefly, than happened to drop her eyes to the one below it.

……...

**Auto Accident Claims Local Resident**

_Daniel Kim_

Staff Writer

(BOULDER CITY) – A local woman by the name of Teresa Lopez was killed Sunday night in an automobile accident at the intersection of Avenue L and Wyoming Street.

Witnesses on the scene described a police cruiser running a stop sign and colliding with Ms. Lopez's 2005 Volkswagen Jetta between the hours of 8 and 9 p.m. The unmarked cruiser stopped for several minutes before speeding away, according to witnesses. No one could get an accurate description of the driver. Teresa Lopez, 23, was thrown thirty feet from her vehicle upon impact and died at the scene. As a note of interest, the body was found to be missing its right arm upon recovery. Local Boulder City law enforcement is currently investigating the incident.

Boulder City's Chief of Police, Tom Wharton, is currently denying any member of his department's involvement. Witnesses could describe no identifying marks on the police cruiser that killed Teresa Lopez.

"We are currently contacting the state patrol and other local law enforcement," Wharton said. "We have no leads in this case as of yet, but it's unfortunate that one of our own might have done such a heinous thing. We are here to serve and protect, and this vehicular hit and run is something I can't condone in a fellow officer of the law."

……...

Claire blinked. Her blood ran cold at a sneaking suspicion.

"Hey, Miguel."

The man stopped pacing the carpet long enough to catch the odd catch in Claire's breath.

"What?"

"…What did you say Teresa's last name was?"

He frowned. "I didn't say."

"Nevermind that. What is it?"

"Lopez. Why?"

_I'm in hell. I've died and gone to hell and no one saw fit to inform me. _

Claire swallowed thickly. "I think you need to look at this. Read the second article."

Miguel made a frustrated sound, and then stood over her shoulder to squint down at the computer. Claire stayed perfectly still as she waited for him to digest the block of type displayed across the screen. After approximately half a minute, she felt him start to shake.

Slowly, both of their heads turned to regard the other. Disbelief reflected upon their faces, perfect mirror images of the same expression.

"Where did she go," Claire breathed. It wasn't a question.

"S-s-she said she was going out to look at your car."

"Aw, shit." Claire cursed tacitly.

A reverberating rumble from outside seized their attention and shook the house. The front door opened shortly after the awful sound, and someone stepped inside. It wasn't Teresa.

Both Miguel and Claire's eyes pinned themselves to the newcomer. It was a man in his mid-to-late twenties with dark brown hair. He wore a leather jacket and faded jeans, which somehow worked to describe the rest of him – he seemed washed out. His tanned complexion seemed overwrought with a gray hue, as did the lines in his face. It was unexplainable unless seen, and it was definitely something both of them had never witnessed. Perhaps the only thing that seemed even remotely vibrant were his eyes – they were quite blue. The man was frowning.

"Who… can I help you?" Miguel was the one who broke the silence first. He seemed unsure of himself, crestfallen even.

Claire just stared.

The man's shocking eyes flickered between both of them, and then he began to advance.

Miguel and Claire wound up backing up a step for every step he took forward. He had an intimidating air about him, and something seemed off.

"Get out of my house!" Miguel shouted, growing restless with the man's silence. Claire's back was brushing up against the sliding door that opened up into the patio. The cool press of the glass through the thin cotton wall of her t-shirt reminded her of this.

Miguel finally acted. He sidestepped to the right, reaching outwards for the knife block in the kitchen. His eyes never left the stranger, which was ditto for Claire.

What happened next was swift mayhem.

Miguel had managed to reach the kitchenette. His fingers wrapped firmly around the wooden handle of a butcher knife. Claire's mouth was open, breath coming in short pants of panic as she watched the Mexican-American man. He looked positively fearsome. There was still the bloodied cut over one cheek that had yet to be washed, the unkempt hair and the dangerous visage – all of these things made the hair on Claire's arms stand on end.

Miguel hunched over in the next second, and then charged while holding the knife aloft.

The odd man did not move.

Claire closed her eyes and made a strangled sound as she waited out the inevitable.

It never came.

Slowly, the blonde cracked one eye open. Miguel was now a meter or so behind the man, still holding the butcher's knife.

Miguel looked dismayed. It was a look she was beginning to familiarize herself with. Her coworker pivoted in a slow circle, catching Claire's dumbfounded gaze in the process.

They shared another baffled moment. Miguel had not managed to sink his weapon into the intruder. It wasn't for lack of trying – he had certainly attempted it to the best of his ability. His aim was straight and his projection was on the mark – but something went wrong where the material had met with the immaterial.

Miguel would have been successful had he not run right _through_ his target.

The strange man shimmered, or flickered, or some variation of that. He opened his mouth, and the two could not tear their eyes away even if Japan wanted to do a sequel to Pearl Harbor in the skies over Miguel's house at that moment.

"You couldn't harm me if you wanted to, human." He paused, then added, "I'm sure you will take this example to memory."

A spasm of recognition lit Claire's face. She bit her lip and wished the fleas of a thousand camels on whatever higher power concocted this arrangement. They were surely getting their jollies out of this one.

_It's him. _For once, she didn't doubt the gender.

"H-how…" Claire trailed off. She wasn't sure where to begin, or _how _to.

"I am merely in my holoform, nothing more," he explained.

Miguel dropped the knife. It landed with a dull '_thud_' on the carpet, and danced a bit by bouncing back and forth. When the object finally settled, Miguel spoke. "What the hell are you…?"

"I'm the only thing that stood between you and that remodeled Trans-Organic."

_Here he goes again._

"You mean, that was... they are called _what_?"

Claire couldn't finish. Smokescreen cut her off with a curt nod and a sober stare. "It was exactly like the one that was fashioned after your likeness. Long ago, before the first sparkling of my people ever made its first computation, there were the Trans-Organics. They were created by an ancient race that fused biology and technology to create the first prototypes, but these were found to be too unpredictable to be controlled. Thus, they were destroyed."

Miguel's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. He looked spooked.

"B-buh-buh… she's dead. That woman, she died on Sunday… H-how…" Claire hadn't realized that she was still planted firmly against the door. It was becoming an acutely uncomfortable position, so she relaxed and took a small step forward. If Smokescreen had wanted to kill her, he would have done it already.

"Exactly," came the ghost-figure's simple answer.

"What do you mean, 'exactly'?!" It was Miguel, and he sounded furious. He hadn't moved from his position, and seemed quite cautious of anything Smokescreen might do. "She… we…" he sputtered, and Claire had a moment of sympathy for him. Miguel had really liked her.

Smokescreen appeared exasperated. "Think, fleshling. I know this may come as a challenge for you, but tie the ends together."

Claire stepped forward, a bit peeved that he was salting Miguel's loss. "Excuse me, but would it kill you to be just a tad nicer? I know you don't come by it naturally, but you could at least…"

"Wait, you _know_ this guy?" Miguel's indignant squawk carried across the room, causing Smokescreen's human shade to visually sputter.

"Yes. We've been acquainted, unfortunately."

White hot anger spiked through her brain, causing a reflex action that Claire had long since despaired of ever curing. Sarcasm.

"I like you too," Claire bit back.

Miguel looked lost.

"By your tone, I can see you share the sentiment." Smokescreen interjected humorlessly.

"Explain Teresa!" Miguel was the one to finally step in and redirect the conversation.

Smokescreen put a virtual hand to his equally virtual forehead. His brow furrowed as if pained by the prospect of explaining what seemed blatant to him. "The Decepticons…"

"…Those are like the bad guys," Claire supplied for Miguel, cutting off Smokescreen in the process.

Smokescreen shot her a pointed glare, and then continued in a professorial tone. "As I was _saying_ before I was so rudely interrupted… the Decepticons have found a new way of hiding themselves amongst humans. We…"

"…the Autobots, the supposed good guys… although that may be dependent on interpretation…" Claire once again disturbed Smokescreen's smooth composition.

Miguel was beginning to go from befuddled to annoyed. Smokescreen, on the other hand, was already there.

"Would you let me_ finish_?" he retorted with a snide clip.

"I'm just trying to fill him in. He doesn't know all of this stuff," Claire shot back.

"_**Would you both just shut up and get to the point!?"**_ Miguel had had enough. He looked awfully close to using the sharp blade he had dropped minutes earlier on his own ears. Their verbal sparring was sending Claire's coworker into a psychotic slide.

Claire fell silent, but did not look happy about it.

Smokescreen regarded the seething male behind him with a wry expression. "If the Decepticons can get a sample of tissue that is large enough, they can use that to create a new kind of Decepticon… one that weaves among the masses of your planet with ease. Somehow, the Decepticons have found out how to recreate the Trans-Organics without any of the issues the original creators had. These upgrades take the form of their donor, which is in most cases already dead. However…"

He turned to Claire. It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't looking at her – he was looking somewhere much lower. Her face flushed, and she nearly launched into a string of obscenities about perverts when it suddenly made sense.

Her eyes dropped with his, and she saw what he was looking at. Peeking out from beneath one jean leg was her prosthetic.

A missing leg, and a Decepticon that looked just like she did when she parted with it.

_Aw, shit._

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine. 

**A/N: **Haha, I'm evil. Notice how I never went into Teresa's point of view when I've stated before I was only doing this from the perspective of humans… muah.

**soaringphoenix:**I'm glad you like the interaction between them! I'm having fun with it too, since it's not really directed by me… more by them. Okay, so maybe it is by me in my subconscious somewhere. At any rate, it just sort of _happens_. I don't plan it, I just write it as I go. Smokescreen kept the blue, but dropped the red for yellow! You were right about the quiet car ride and the fact that Smokescreen did _not_ want human fluids all over his interior. Yucky.

**Elita One:** Thanks for the review – and for every chapter that you have commented on this far. ) I thought their discussion was awesome as well. I'm usually not one to put a discussion about 'lubricating' into stories, so that was a first!

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**The Human Stain: Chapter 9**

_How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad  
Tryin' hard not to smile though I feel bad  
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral  
Can't understand what I mean?  
Well, you soon will  
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve  
I have a history of losing my shirt_

_**- Barenaked Ladies, One Week**_

* * *

"So… let me get this straight. I had a shark take a chunk of my leg for lunch ten years ago, and somehow these Decepticons wound up with it? Do you know how unlikely that sounds?"

Smokescreen appeared to be struggling against the urge to roll his eyes.

"What?"

"It wasn't a…" He did not complete his sentence, and instead stared off into a pocket of air directly to the left of Claire's face. The Autobot seemed to be thinking – processing – whatever he –_ it, it!_ – did.

She had been quite surprised to see him in some semblance of a human guise, honestly. Sure, it was shocking to see him change forms as a junker-to-robot-to-decent car, but she could eventually come to understand that. It was all the same in the end. He – _damn_ – was still a machine. Now, standing as he was before herself and Miguel, she saw him in an entirely new light.

_It's too bad he's such a jerk._

Claire instantly paled, even before she realized that Smokescreen was speaking again. Where was the, '_It's too bad he's a mechanical alien from outer space_'?! Why in the world did she pity his personality before the very obvious fact that he was not human? He might appear as one, but he wasn't even solid. It was all an illusion, a hologram.

_Wow, I'm really going mental._

Smokescreen was looking at her again, and strangely at that. She startled, and shook herself out of her run-on thoughts. "Oh, sorry, what were you saying?"

"If you don't have the mental aptitude to keep up, I won't waste my time," he said bluntly.

"I was listening!" she protested a little too quickly.

They both looked at her, and even Miguel looked dubious.

_Way to go_, she thought.

"Explain this," Miguel began with exasperation, thankfully cutting into Claire's wayward thoughts. "I understand that that Trans-Organic thing would want her out of the picture since it's hard to assume a new identity when the one you stole it from is still out there somewhere. What I _don't_ understand is how I got involved."

Smokescreen gave a gentle rise and fall of his shoulders. "It is not so uncomplicated from where I stand. You informed me this human… you called her Teresa… she died Sunday night, correct?"

"That's right," Miguel said mournfully.

"If the Trans-Organic had just arrived and she was in the right place at the right time, it would not be particular about the donor."

"Don't you mean _wrong_ place at the _wrong_ time? Why would it even be particular at all?" Claire was confused.

Smokescreen sighed, and looked away. "If the donor was not of the phenotype to match its processing pattern, then it would be driven to find one that was." The hologram's eyes shifted, and landed pointedly on Miguel.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you looking at me for?" Miguel held his hands up before him anxiously as if to ward off any attention from Smokescreen.

"I don't get it," Claire said, running a frustrated hand through her limp locks. "What does a 'processing pattern' have to do with this? What does that even _mean_?"

Smokescreen still had his focus riveted to Miguel, as if assessing the man's attributes. Miguel shifted uncomfortably under the intense scrutiny. With an exasperated hitch of his virtual voice, the apparition of the dark-haired man at last turned to Claire's query. "When sparklings are… born, as you humans put it, they begin to form thoughts. These thoughts follow one of two distinct patterns." He splayed both hands wide to illustrate as he spoke, and lifted one hand slightly higher than the other. "One pattern had more male attributes, the other female. The majority of processing patterns are male, but occasionally there is a pattern that forms a female identity. Cybertronians cannot read each other's thoughts, but we can communicate with one another in a way that allows us to decipher each other's processors. When our prototype forms are brought to the fore, we assume a shape that is male or female."

"Are you saying there are female Autobots out there?"

Smokescreen nodded. "Yes, a few… well, there were." He frowned at the thought. "I do not know of their fate now. In any case, the pattern coming from the Trans-Organic you arrived here with was male."

"Is that why she… he… walked into The 'Spoke alone last night?" Miguel's eyes widened as he started to connect the dots. "He wasn't happy with Teresa's body?"

"It wouldn't be so far-fetched," Smokescreen acquiesced.

"Are you telling me that this Trans-Organic was like a woman who thought she should have been born a man?"

"You have such occurrences?" Slightly caught off guard, the hologram fluctuated and wavered. The space of air it occupied seemed to roll in waves, much like the heat generated from a campfire. Claire vaguely wondered if Smokescreen's concentration was a prime factor in keeping his holographic representation before them – even the smallest surprise had a disruptive effect to it. A second passed, and the hologram seemed to be thinking. Finally, it nodded. "Ah, you do."

"What did he just do?" It was Miguel. He was looking at Smokescreen like he was seeing a ghost for the first time – which wasn't entirely incorrect.

"He's connected to the Internet," Claire explained by proxy. "He tends to check up on things he doesn't understand, I think… at least that is how it was explained to me."

"He can do that in just _seconds_?"

"I didn't say I wasn't impressed."

Both humans turned to regard the mechanoid again. He was watching both of them, and a gleam of amusement echoed in his features. "I'm glad to divert your attention to such inane things, but for the sake of stupidity I would just like to point out that I am still present."

Claire shot him a glare. _Jerk._

Miguel redirected the conversation once more. He looked crestfallen. "Then… this thing wanted a male body. He wanted mine."

"Most likely," Smokescreen supplied, appearing sobered.

Miguel's head snapped up. "Where is she… he? What happened to him?"

Smokescreen said nothing.

It was Miguel who stood first, with Claire closely on his heels. They approached the front door tentatively, as if fearing what they might find – which was exactly the case. Slowly, Miguel reached out and swung the barrier aside. It was still partially open from Smokescreen's sudden entrance, and Claire could feel a small breeze blowing in from the outside world.

The sun was blinding, but nothing the two weren't familiar with. Claire had grown up in California, the proverbial Sunshine State, but the Nevada sun had humbled her upon moving to the area. It seemed much more direct and encompassing the closer she had moved to the equator, and she had to have a healthy respect for that. She was a firm believer in sunscreen on weekends.

The front yard sprawled into sight once the door was out of the way. Blinking rapidly, both sets of eyes scanned the short, brown grass sprouting from Miguel's yard. It didn't take them long to find it, it was quite the eyesore.

At first, no true details coalesced into Claire's mind. Everything seemed to be a misshapen mess. The rubbery mass was matted and lumpy, with the circumference of a kitchen table. A sleek black banner of hair perched atop the splotch like an obscene flag, and around it a tan canvas wove between gleaming metal struts.

Only… Claire squinted.

_It's skin. Oh, god._

It was indeed a human hide. There was a clear fluid weighing down the entire blob, but no blood that she could recognize. Thick, visceral globules that might have been eyes were splattered across the skin, and Claire could see an ear attached to the material near the long ponytail.

Clamping a hand over her mouth, Claire spun on her heel and bolted for the bathroom in the hallway. Miguel made a sound akin to a dying animal beside her, and then pitched over and began to vomit in the shrubbery lining the house.

It was crushed. The Trans-Organic masquerading as Teresa had been flattened.

As she rounded the corner, Claire's eyes met with the one responsible. It was only for a second, a split-moment between sickness and stupefied recognition of his actions. There was no remorse in that face.

_He stepped on her._

Before she knew it, she was slamming the door to the bathroom shut and clutching the porcelain rim of the toilet while she retched out the meager contents of her stomach. It was one thing to narrowly escape death relatively unscathed; it was quite another to fully actualize it. It might not have been human, but parts of it were. Parts of it had been copied from a dead woman's DNA – and then they were mutilated and left to dry out in the hot sun. It didn't seem fair, it wasn't justice – it was just pure desecration. If this was her future… well, she didn't want any part of it. She wanted nothing more to do with the monster in the living room, no matter how handsome she thought his hologram to be. She was just a stupid, stupid girl who had never grown up since high school. She was temporarily misled by blue eyes that weren't even _there_. His personality had never been something to call home about, and yet she still wished differently.

_Idiot._

When all she had left to give was stomach acid, Claire straightened. Her esophagus burned all the way from the base of her stomach to the roof of her mouth. She desperately wanted to brush her teeth, but Miguel wouldn't appreciate it if she 'borrowed' his brush. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Claire steadied herself against the sink counter and viewed her miserable reflection in the mirror. That's when she noticed he was behind her.

She whirled, eyes widening. "What do you want!?" she cried hoarsely.

Smokescreen had been standing there quietly all that time, and she hadn't heard him come in. "Are you alright?" he questioned.

She gave a broken, bitter bark of a laugh. It cost her comfort, and a raging inferno ran the length of her windpipe once again. "Am I alright?" she said, as if posing the question rhetorically to herself. "No, I am **NOT** alright. I haven't been alright since you showed up. I wish you would just get the hell out my life and take your violence with you."

He did not say anything, but he stepped a bit closer.

Claire spun around. "Stop!" she cried shrilly, shaking her head. "I don't want you near me, you got that? I want you out of my life, out of my presence, out, _out_, _**out**_!"

"It wasn't human," he said kindly, in a voice she had never heard him use before.

"The hell it wasn't! Parts of it were! It looks like a bulldozer rolled someone over. Do you know how… how _deplorable_ that is? Not only that, Miguel had to see it! He's been through enough, and then you step on someone he liked? What's _wrong_with you?!"

Oddly enough, he was not provoked in the slightest by her ire. "He would have killed you both, especially him. He was hunting last night. What else would you have me do?"

"I-I-I don't know. I just thought we wouldn't see it. I thought you would get rid of it and…"

" – and what, blast it into space? Wave my arm and make it disappear?" He reached out, almost as if to take the distraught woman by the shoulders, but then appeared to think better of it and let his hands fall away. They would have just gone through her, anyways. A sprinkling of frustration began to enter his voice, and Claire wasn't sure if it was due to her discomfiture or his inability to touch her. "This is real, Claire. You have to be able to stand up to things like this. Worse could happen, and you will die if you fall victim to your insecurities."

Was he… coaching her? Encouraging her? _Comforting_ her?

No, of course not.

"I-I-I can't do it. I can't do this. I can't see any more gore."

"You can do this."

Dimly, she recalled a similar situation in a dream. She was getting déjà vu. "I… I need to clean myself up," she said, swiftly changing the subject. One of her hands reached out to press down on the toilet's flushing mechanism. The sound of the toilet swallowing her vomit was a jarring noise to her stretched senses, but it got rid of the smell. Claire turned away from Smokescreen, swinging one of the faucet handles sideways. The rush of clean water on her hands was a small comfort.

"For a human, you are not as weak as you appear."

That statement got her attention. She raised her head from her sudden fascination with the drain, and was nearly ready to fire back a caustic retort when she realized he was complimenting her – in his own way. Lips still slightly parted, the young woman narrowed her eyes slightly and then replied, "It's really too bad you couldn't be more helpful. I think you should take a lesson from C3PO. Now_that's_ a robot."

"C3PO…?" he trailed, his features etching into an expression of confusion. His hologram flickered like a sputtering candle on the wind. Claire began to form the idea that this could wind up as an amusing game later – How Much Can You Disrupt the Hologram?

"You know, Star Wars…" Her sickness began to fade, as did her anger. The logical part of her brain began to override the emotional side, and it was becoming clear that he had saved their lives. This was now officially once for Miguel, twice for her. If he kept it up, she might actually begin to feel indebted to him. It was a horrible thought, really.

He had been 'browsing' in the time she mentioned the three-part trilogy, and apparently he came up with the reference in record time. He gave her a funny look, and then slowly curved his lips upward.

He smiled. It was small, but it was real.

She found she could not look away.

* * *

Miguel was still in love, but his love was dead. Technically, she had been dead before he even knew her.

The thing posing as the real Teresa had ensnared him, and he shuddered to think what might have happened if he had gone home with her last night. He would be dead right then, as dead as the real Teresa.

It wasn't fair.

He had rushed in after puking his brains out, full of rage and venom. He found them both in the bathroom, of all places, and had demanded the 'good' alien's attention with full-blown Spanish. It had startled both of them. "_Ay Dios Mio!_" he cried, using one hand to flatten his hair to his skull as he cupped the side of his head. The other was busy making wild jabs towards the front door. "_Cuidadito conmigo, payo!_ _Get rid of it!_" He was referring, of course, to the blob of flesh and metal on his front lawn. He did not need to be reminded of it anymore, and the last thing he needed was a neighbor reporting it to the police. It would be more than just a little disturbing to a kid biking down the sidewalk, after all. He could not deal with the threat of cops crawling all over his property. He wouldn't know what to tell them, he could barely comprehend it himself. He had already been to jail a handful of times for petty crimes like drug use (Mandatory Marley, baby) in high school, and then got caught smoking weed outside Ashbury Paints just last month by another employee. Thankfully, his coworker was more interested in sharing than reporting him.

In any case, the last thing he needed was for the police to convict him of some grotesque murder. There was a fair bit of metal in that wreckage out front, but there were enough human parts to lead them to believe he had done something with the rest of the body.

Smokescreen departed soon after that, and was gone approximately an hour. Claire took the time to call in sick and to take another shower, and neither she nor Miguel questioned his whereabouts. They both shared the knowledge he was disposing of the body, but no words on the subject were traded. Miguel took advantage of the alien's departure and took a shower. He fell ill at ease knowing it was in his house, even if Claire seemed to know it.

He was just winding a belt through the loops in his jeans when his mind gravitated back towards Teresa. He was fortunate, he supposed, because he had had a few fleeting hours to know what she might have been like. True, that Trans-Organic creature was not she, but it had her smile, her walk, her long black hair – all of these things were things the true Teresa would have had in abundance. It was a bit on the creepy side, but he liked to think that it had retained her memories, her perception of the world, the way she would tease him. He could not bring himself to think of the other, more gritty side to what he had experienced with her. The idea that the thing was just luring him in like a black widow was something that shook him to the core.

Denial was always a very good mistress to him.

So, he persisted on, believing the better of the two reasons. If he gave himself that much, he could pretend that everything was going to turn out alright. He vowed to remember what he shared with Teresa. He wished in vain he could have known her in life, but such wishes were for the birds. She was gone, gone before he even knew her.

He felt cheated.

* * *

They made a motley trio – one man, one woman, and one Transformer posing as a human. The lengthening shadows outside heralded the arrival of dusk. The penumbras had gathered beneath the eyes of the two humans, who were currently packed together on the loveseat in the living room as Smokescreen stood before them. They had eaten a quick lunch derived from the remnants of Miguel's Chinese take-out from the day before. The hologram hadn't eaten, of course, even though Claire had offered. She did not really expect him to put a wonton into a mouth that wasn't really there, but it was the principle of politeness that motivated her. Miguel had given her a weird look for it, but she ignored him.

"So now what are we going to do?" Miguel asked, once they were all gathered together in the den.

"Good question," Claire quipped morosely.

"It's simple. We need to leave as soon as possible."

"_What?!_" Miguel and Claire chimed in unison. They were staring up at Smokescreen like he had grown a second head.

"We cannot stay here. The Trans-Organic is gone, but Claire's spawn is still searching for her," Smokescreen explained with a sigh. "Beyond that concern, there are tracking units inside the processors of these new Decepticons. Other Decepticons will be here shortly. I am but one Autobot, I cannot withstand an army."

"More…?" questioned Miguel hesitantly.

"Yes, more like the kind that destroyed your…" Smokescreen paused, found the right word, and then finished. "…pub."

"You must have visited a UK site," Claire muttered. "It's 'bar' in the U.S."

His eyes snapped to her. "Bar," he repeated peevishly. "At any rate, there will be more. We must leave for Mission City."

"So… that big metal guy controls all the Trans-Organics?" Miguel postulated, a bit confused.

"Correct… in theory they do. We are not quite sure of their relationship yet. It may be strained or shattered. All we do know is that large numbers of Decepticons and their Trans-Organic creations have landed as of last night. We had no idea there were so many Cybertronians left in existence."

"I'm sure you'll fill us in on the ride, then."

Miguel whipped his face around and studied Claire. Now she was the one with the second head. "You aren't serious, are you? You're actually going with this thing?"

Claire snorted. "You expect us to fare any better here? My home isn't safe, they know where I live. Now your home isn't, either. What are we supposed to do?"

"Zebrowski is _so_ going to fire us for this."

For once that day, Claire looked truly happy. She flashed Miguel a bright smile and appeared instantly lifted by his comment. "They say every cloud has a silver lining."

Miguel blinked, cocked his head to one side like a curious squirrel, and then let out a laugh.

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head wryly, "I guess you're right about that."

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:**First off, I want to say that I did not make up the Trans-Organics; they are actually part of the original Transformers universe. I thought resurrecting a new version of them would be a good plot idea. Basically, they were created on Cybertron by the Quintessons (the organic race that later created the first Transformers). Due to their unstable dual natures, the Trans-Organics could not be controlled and were too primitive for their creators. Thus, they were sealed far below Cybertron and the Quintessons started to dabble in pure robotics before creating the Transformers.

Secondly, I want to thank **soaringphoenix**, **Elita One** and **dandyparakeet** for all the good reviews. You guys are the best, and it really means a lot to me to log in to find what you said about my story. I am losing steam on this fic, but I haven't given it up entirely. I will still be updating, but not as much as before (i.e. almost every day). If you have read this story and liked it/hated it, please let me know. I don't even care if you say you'd rather read the TV Guide – say so. Any criticism that makes me a better writer is well appreciated.

**Miguel's Translations: **

**Ay Dios Mio!:**_ Oh my God!_

**Cuidadito conmigo, payo!**_: Don't fuck with me!_

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**The Human Stain: Chapter 10**

_And that road rolls out like a welcome mat  
I don't know where it goes but it beats where we're at  
We always said some day some how  
Were gonna get away, gonna blow this town_

_**-Emerson Drive, What About Now**_

* * *

They drove northeast on 93 the very next morning, towards the Hoover Dam. From there they would curl north, and drive the remaining leg of the journey. Before any of this occurred, Claire had convinced Smokescreen to stop by her house so she might pack a few things and grab her purse. He had reluctantly relented. There was a shared buzz between Miguel and Claire the whole while, something intangible but definitely detectable. Despite the grisly circumstances that had forced them into the impromptu road trip, there was an air of excitement that lifted their spirits. An adventure had begun to unfold, something that both paint store employees had been long denied. Their long, tedious days at Ashbury Paints had dulled their exteriors. It was only now that they felt rejuvenated, as if there had truly been a point to their seemingly pointless lives. Nothing seemed to be able to hold them back – until the thermometer climbed. 

The sun glared down upon the world below with its usual intensity, heating up Subaru's two occupants. They had long since passed the Hoover Dam, and were nearing the Mission City limits. Both the driver and passenger side windows were all the way down, leaving it very difficult to communicate. Miguel had refused the air conditioning Smokescreen offered, leaving Claire on the verge of homicidal urges.

"I do not understand your refusal." Smokescreen's disembodied voice filled the car, which in turn made Miguel shudder. "…But if you will not take advantage of the air conditioning, it is of no consequence to me."

Claire shot Miguel a grouchy look while fanning her face with one hand. She had opted to take the driver's seat, but she wasn't steering the car. "It's 98 degrees outside. Could you please bag your marbles and think straight?"

Miguel shook his head and stuck his face further out the passenger-side window like a dog. "No way, Claire."

"But_ why_?"

"It's… it's just… don't you see? It would be like him _breathing_ on me for the entire ride."

The car fell silent.

Claire snickered. Soon, the tittering gave way to full-blown laughter. "Oh man, oh man," the woman chortled, wiping at corners of her eyes with a thumb. "That was rich. Got any other snippets of wisdom? I bet you do."

Miguel looked sullen.

"What else is there… oh, I suppose sitting in that seat right there qualifies as a massive hand cupping your butt too."

Both humans felt the Subaru's engine choke. It sputtered several times as if failing, caught itself, and then resumed its steady hum.

The tanned man gave the woman next to him a startled look, as if the thought hadn't yet crossed his mind. "_Wh-what?!_" he blustered. Miguel raised himself off the leather seat so that his back supported the full force of his weight. There was now a good three inches beneath him, enough to give him some small comfort from Claire's observation. One hand was braced on the car's center console, the other on the door.

Smokescreen was strangely silent, and Claire was enjoying herself immensely. Her sniggering had subsided, but one corner of her mouth was cocked into a half-grin.

"Did you know," she began innocently, "that touching the console here is like resting your hand on his thigh?"

Miguel ripped his hand away, but lost the support he needed to keep his body above the seat. He promptly plopped down upon the leather again, flinching as he did so.

Claire broke out into more howls of laughter.

Miguel's eyebrow twitched.

Smokescreen finally spoke. His voice was cool. "I understand your plight, Miguel."

Claire's coworker looked both uncomfortable and murderous. He leaned on one thigh closer to the window, and popped his head out again. The rush of the air whistling by his ears proved to lesson the peal of mirth from the huckster sitting beside him. He came to a conclusion not much later, and he stood by it one hundred percent. Real or not, women were _terrible_ creatures.

"I would like to clarify one thing, however," Smokescreen said, continuing from where he had paused. His tone was level and calm, as if he were merely making a remark about the weather. "If any one of the two seats you are both occupying were in any way 'massive hands', I would find no joy out of 'cupping' the passenger side."

Miguel looked somewhat relieved, until the full weight of insinuation settled in the minds of both humans. Claire jerked like she had been stung like a bee. Gray eyes flicked to Miguel's brown ones, and the two shared their sudden knowledge in different ways.

Miguel looked triumphant; Claire looked trumped.

"_**PERVERT!**_"

* * *

The trio did not head for the heart of Mission City like Claire expected. They skimmed the outskirts, eventually ending up on a quiet suburban street before a two-story colonial home. They were in the town of Tranquility, an outlying suburb of Mission City. When Smokescreen eventually angled towards the curb and rolled to a stop, Miguel and Claire exchanged looks. It hardly seemed the place they had envisioned. Maybe a secret lair, a back alley or a desolate canyon – not Suburbia. A man in nothing but a brown bathrobe trotted out of one of the houses to retrieve the morning paper. He gave the Subaru a once-over as he made his trek, gave a low whistle, and then fiddled with the contents of his mailbox. 

"You're kidding me," Claire muttered. She was sitting as straight as a board with her hands folded in her lap. Smokescreen's remark still ran through her mind, keeping her in a state of preserved alarm.

"…And why did we stop?" Miguel questioned pleasantly. He started humming to himself, feigning obliviousness to Claire's discomfort.

Smokescreen's voice floated up from somewhere ahead of them. If he was enjoying Claire's anxiety, his tone did not betray it. "Bumblebee is here."

Claire momentarily forgot her paranoia long enough to ask, "What is Bumblebee?"

"You shall see." The doors on either side of the car clicked and swung aside. Both humans took it as an indication to exit and did so. Claire appeared especially thankful to be out of the car, and was out before Miguel. The engine made a sound somewhere between a rattle and a purr.

"You had better not be laughing," Claire said accusingly.

"Never," Smokescreen replied.

Her eyes narrowed, and she turned away. _Stupid, lecherous cars._

She blinked. Did she just think that? She shook her head. _Never._

The man at the mailbox had long since returned to the confines of his home. The house right next to his, the one in whose shadow they stood, seemed in no way special.

Well, that is if you didn't count the sunny yellow Camaro sitting in the open garage. Not only was it a Camaro, it was a _new_ Camaro.

Claire was getting yet another sneaking suspicion. "Let me guess, it's not what it appears to be."

The Subaru said nothing.

The door to the house opened then, and an awkward youth emerged. He had brown hair, large eyes and a gangly walk that carried him to them.

He held out his hand to Miguel first. "Hey. I'm Sam… Samuel James Witwicky. I was told you'd be coming."

Miguel shook the kid's hand, a bit lost. "Who… you knew?"

The teen did not get the chance to reply. A flurry of tiny feet and spastic yaps diverted the attention of all three humans, alarming them to the fact that a tiny dog garbed in a pink poncho was rapidly approaching.

"Oh,_ no, no, no!_" Sam cried, pivoting around the tiny Chihuahua. The dog danced just out of his reach, making a mockery of the boy. "Bad, Mojo! Get inside!"

"Is that thing wearing a poncho?" Miguel said in disbelief.

Claire was watching the dog thoughtfully, and her mind wandered back to 1997. She couldn't help it – every time she saw a canine, even a cross-dressing one, she had flashbacks.

"Uh, yeah, my mom…" Sam said, attempting to explain while dodging for the dog. "It's really embarrassing, but she uh…" He faked a quick step to the left, which shifted the dog to the right. Lunging to the right, Sam snatched up his errant dog just in the nick of time. The Chihuahua was panting heavily, and Claire noticed that a collar of diamonds was fastened around its neck.

_Ha, his dog has bling._

Mojo whimpered as if asking for forgiveness now that he was in Sam's arms. Sam shifted his hold on the dog, transferring it to the crook of his left elbow.

"So… your mom dresses your dog up?" Miguel asked awkwardly.

"Uh… yeah."

"Sorry, man."

"I've gotten used to it, I guess," Sam sighed. He stroked Mojo absently, then questioned it. "How did you get out?"

Mojo whined.

"Sam!" A voice rang across the front yard from the house. A balding, middle-aged man with a portly constitution was occupying the crack in a partially opened doorjamb. He was scanning the strangers in front of his house, confused by their presence. "Did you see Mojo? He got out the back when your mom opened the door to work in the garden." The man, presumably Sam's father, bumbled across the sidewalk and down the driveway while purposely avoiding the grass. "Who are they?"

Once the older man reached him, Sam handed the deviant dog off. "Uh, just friends."

Claire felt the man's eyes on her. "Just friends? Aren't they a little old?"

"Hey!" Claire cried, a bit taken aback.

"No, uh, they… went to my school. Three grades ahead of me. I'm just, uh… preparing for college!" He snapped his fingers in the air, creating a sharp sound. "Getting tips and all."

"That's my boy," Sam's father remarked approvingly. He readjusted Mojo against his plaid button-down shirt and held out a freehand to Miguel. "I'm Ron. Ron Witwicky, Sam's dad. Which college are you attending?"

"Uhhhh…." Miguel blundered. He glanced at Claire first, seeking aide, but found none. "Uh, I'm… going to MCCC."

"Mission City Community College? I've heard of it." Claire was next to fall victim to Ron Witwicky's scrutiny. "What about you?"

Unlike Miguel, she could at least be partly truthful. "Santa Clara University," she answered piously.

The older man's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that in California?"

"I'm… on spring break."

There was another uncertain pause, and Claire had a bad moment when she feared she would be called on her lie. But, luckily for them all, Sam's father was a firm believer in a normal, orderly world. He was one of the vast majorities of American citizens who wholeheartedly took the government's explanation of the events at Mission City without missing a beat. He made his own conclusions to the scene unfolding before him, and flowed with them.

"Oh, so you must be here to visit your boyfriend!" the man exclaimed, motioning to Miguel in a good-natured manner.

"Uh, actually…" Claire froze, and a rush of heat filled her face. Miguel and herself? _Dating_?

Miguel also appeared plainly uncomfortable with Ron Witwicky's comment. He shifted from one foot to the other, and turned his gaze down the street, where he wished he could be.

"Yeah, uh, those two crazy kids!" It was Sam. He was flicking nervous looks between Claire and Miguel, ushering them to play along.

Claire finally just gave a defeated nod.

Miguel looked back. "Uh, yeah, she's here to visit me."

He nodded robustly, "It's hard to keep together when you attend different schools, but Sam's mother and I made it through the exact same predicament. You guys will be fine."

Claire blanched. "Thanks."

"I didn't catch your names? I'm always interested in Sam's friends. He hardly brings any over, except Miles."

Sam lifted in eyebrow and appeared embarrassed. Claire mused that that was just one of Ron Witwicky's powers – subtle mortification upon all he crossed. "I have lots of friends," Sam protested.

Ron used his freehand to clap his son on the shoulder. "If you say so. I just wanted you to know that your mother and I really thought that girl you brought by was very nice. You should bring her over to dinner sometime."

If Sam could dig himself a hole to China, he would have gladly accepted a shovel.

"Well, I better get back inside before your mother gets even more worried. Nice to meet you two. What did you say your names were?"

"Claire," the blonde woman answered.

"Miguel," the dark-haired man seconded.

Mojo growled.

Sam's father nodded and stroked the dog on the back as if to reassure it. "Well, like I said, nice to meet you. I'm glad to see some of these friends Sam claims to have showing up. He really keeps too much to himself."

"Uh, dad, we're going to go out for awhile. I have a few questions for them about… entrance exams and stuff."

"Sounds good. Call home if you're going to be late." The large man turned away, cradling the Chihuahua in front of him like a football. He emitted a wave over his shoulder, and then climbed up the driveway. He was halfway to the front door of his house when he stopped. Curving around, he gave one last parting shot. "Hey, Sam! Remember to tell them about the grass." Satisfied, Ron Witwicky continued on his way and vanished into the dwelling before him.

"Oh, right," Sam muttered quietly, "stay off the grass. He gets picky about that."

"No problem, man." Miguel looked like he was going through shell shock. His voice escaped him meekly, leaving Claire to believe that meeting the teenager's father had perhaps been a bit too much at once.

"So, anyways," Sam said, switching the subject as he rubbed the back of his head, "I was told you were on your way by the other Autobots. I haven't had the time to meet Smokescreen." He motioned half-heartedly towards the Subaru. "He recently arrived and was given orders by Optimus to find you." Sam's face was now staring in Claire's direction.

"Um, that's all well and good, but who is Optimus?"

"He didn't tell you?" Sam seemed surprised by this. Smokescreen, for his part, continued to play the part of a car. He said nothing.

"Optimus is the leader of the Autobots," the kid stated proudly.

Miguel was muttering in Spanish to himself. Claire picked up something that sounded like '_No mames güey_', but she could not fathom the meaning. Her Spanish was very poor, even thought she had grown up surrounded by many ethnicities in the melting pot of the Bay Area. Upon moving to Nevada, she was surrounded by even more diversity. She chalked up her lack of Spanish to keeping to a small, homogenous group of friends in school and then keeping to herself later.

"They have a leader?" Miguel reverted back to English again. Claire envied the ease he had in juggling the two languages.

"Do you humans not have leaders?" The voice that cut in on Miguel's query was not one that belonged to any human. It was Smokescreen's. It came from the curb, where the Subaru had been almost forgotten. Claire mentally chided herself for forgetting he had been present and listening all along.

Miguel frowned and faced the car. "Hey, I don't appreciate…"

"It was an ignorant assumption."

If Miguel had any small parcel of thought that he had come to an understanding with the robot on the drive over, he was wrong. "I don't like your attitude, man." His voice was lowering in pitch, indicating he was getting testy. "If you got a problem with me…"

"Hey, now." Claire took the opportunity to interrupt, just as Miguel was clenching his hands into fists. Smokescreen had more than once gotten on her bad side, but Miguel wouldn't stand idly by if he were pushed too far. He was already in a stressful situation, and his temper was short. He would not think twice about taking a rock to Smokescreen's window, an action that in turn would reward him with an instant entrance into the next world. "Would you guys calm down? Miguel, I know he's an ass sometimes… but hey, he _did_ save our lives. Let's just get through this step-by-step."

Sam was observing the proceedings with a wary eye. Tension drained from his shoulders when Claire attempted to mollify the two, and he stepped closer to drag everyone's attention to his person. "So… you're Smokescreen? I've heard about you from the others."

"None of it good," Miguel groused, still burned by the Subaru's barbs.

Claire knocked an elbow back into Miguel's ribcage and he grimaced.

Smokescreen appeared to take the higher ground and ignored Miguel. "I have heard about you too, Sam Witwicky. Thank you for your help against Megatron."

'_Mega-what?_' Claire mouthed silently to Miguel. The entire conversation was flowing like a rapid river over their heads. Miguel just glowered back at her, displeased with the ache in his side that she put there.

A sound turned their eyes to the house. The Camaro roared to life and began to back out of the garage. As the shadows cast by the house peeled away, the sun lit the bright expanse of the yellow sports car. It looked very, very expensive.

_Holy crap. That kid drives around in __**that**?!_ Claire's mind balked.

Honestly, it put Smokescreen's Subaru form to shame. If he had still been disguised as a Datsun, Claire would have not even bothered comparing the two. The Camaro appeared brand-new, as if it should be on display on some showroom floor. The Subaru looked like it was a rally car, meant for speed and work. It was apples and oranges, but Claire would be damned if her eyes weren't first drawn to the sleek red exterior of the apple before they checked out the pebbly surface of the orange.

Clearly, the Camaro was the apple.

"Wow, where did you get that?"

"From a used car lot, my dad bought it for me. He actually found me, though."

"He…?"

"Bumblebee."

"Oh." The switch went on in her head, and she scolded herself for being so slow on the uptake. It was another Autobot, another one of Smokescreen's kind. It drove without a driver, and purred as it rolled backwards out of the driveway. It kept reversing until it came to be parallel with the humans standing along the side of the street, and then gently ceased motion entirely.

"Hello," it said in a cultured voice. Claire blinked. Unlike Smokescreen's dry baritone, this new voice provided the Camaro with an entirely different personality. It was a smooth articulation that seemed both young and pleasant.

_Damn, lucky kid. He got a Who and I got the Grinch._

"Uh, hello," Claire said, giving a nervous little wave. Did they even see to the sides while in car form? She had no idea.

"Hey," Miguel added nervously. His eyes darted anxiously between the Subaru and the Camaro, unsure of what to make of the talking cars.

"Well, we'd better get going!" Sam said gaily. He rounded the Camaro, and the door opened for him. "You can follow us, Smokescreen. I need to stop by and pick up Mikaela first, though. I hope you don't mind?"

"Indeed."

"Oh." Both of Sam's eyebrows rose. "You do mind?"

"Are all humans so daft?" The question was meant for Bumblebee. "I meant I did not mind, of course."

Bumblebee did not rise to the bait. In fact, he had no interest whatsoever in engaging in agreement with Smokescreen. "You could be a bit nicer, Smoke."

"Perhaps I would feel more inclined when the boy becomes a brighter bulb."

"Smokescreen," edged the yellow Camaro dangerously, "shift gears and watch what you say."

Claire was delighted. She was absolutely, positively delighted. Smokescreen was being told off by his own kind. He did not seem to take the warnings of humans into much consideration, but perhaps he would listen to another Autobot.

"Go shove it up your exhaust," Smokescreen rejoined simply.

Bumblebee revved his engine. He was positioned just ahead of the Subaru, and used the location to his advantage. Sam had by then clambered inside the Camaro's cab. As the door slammed shut behind him, the Camaro peeled away.

"I'd rather you smell it first!" laughed the Camaro.

The stench of used gas hit Claire's nose, marking Bumblebee's words. A black cloud of noxious fumes spilled from Bumblebee's exhaust pipe and into the air around Smokescreen, truly creating a 'smokescreen' so thick around the Subaru that Claire could barely make him out. Both Miguel and Claire leaped back, incidentally landing on Ron Witwicky's perfect stretch of manicured lawn. A strangled cry erupted through an open window of the house behind them, and Claire knew they were in trouble.

Grabbing Miguel by the arm, she put her arm against her mouth and pulled her coworker into Smokescreen via the passenger door. She slammed it behind them, echoing the sound from the Witwicky's front door as Sam's father came striding out in an angry jaunt.

Smokescreen was furious. "_**In, in!**_" he was shouting. "Slaggin' tough-bot." His normally correct and arrogant way of speaking had gone to hell. His voice was laced with impatience, and he was cursing Bumblebee with words Claire had no earthly lexicon for.

The moment they were inside, several things happened at once. Ron Witwicky was nearly upon them, pumping his fist in rage, and then Smokescreen peeled away. Miguel and Claire were thrown backwards from the force of the momentum, causing Claire to squeak in surprise and Miguel to shower the Subaru with Spanish 'pleasantries'.

Still, despite the ruckus, Claire had to hand it to Bumblebee. He had managed to do something she had not - he had successfully pushed Smokescreen's buttons.

She was impressed.

* * *

Once out of the residential maze of streets and cul-de-sacs, the two transformers and their human occupants hit a two-lane highway that opened up into a more commercial area. Fast food joints lined the streets along with grocery stores and other shopping venues. Smokescreen had done all in his power (short of breaking the speed limit _too_ much) to catch up to the Camaro. 

Miguel felt like a teenager again. He didn't particularly like Smokescreen, but the way he handled on the road was unlike anything he ever knew. The way the car swerved cleanly around other cars showed the expertise behind the steering. Like the drive there, he did not know where they were going or what they were going to do when they got there. The last he heard, they were to pick up some girl named Mikaela. If he had any intuition at all, it was the Anglo kid's girlfriend.

They traveled for about five minutes, and several times the two cars hit stoplights. They would gun their motors, taunting and goading each other. When the light turned green, the Camaro and Subaru would be off like a shot, blowing smoke out their rears and dusting the windshields of the cars behind them. Claire had her seatbelt on and was clutching the sides of her seat with a death grip, but Miguel was enjoying himself. The square of asphalt before each crosswalk they encountered was bequeathed with skid marks, he was sure of it.

Eventually they pulled into a small trailer court community. The trailers were shabby and dilapidated, constructed with aluminum and other cheap materials. Miguel had never lived in a trailer court, but he had had friends that did. They were nothing new to him. Claire, on the other hand, was looking around like they had discovered some strange new world.

"This is just getting weirder and weirder," she stated quietly.

"Yeah," he said distantly, wondering if she was looking down her nose at the trailers. Probably.

The screen door to one of the trailers swung aside, and a petite brunette jogged down a few wooden steps that had been rigged to the side of the dwelling. The makeshift steps shook, which reverberated down the side of the trailer. She saw Sam in the yellow Camaro and smiled. After giving him a small wave, she swept her gaze over to the Subaru beyond the first car. A frown fell upon her visage, and she crept nearer to the Camaro. Miguel saw her making a few gestures that were flung in his direction, and he figured Sam was explaining the situation to the girl.

She was rather pretty, but she didn't have enough meat on her bones to rouse any attraction in him. After much back and forth, the girl climbed into the Bumblebee creature and they were on their way once more.

* * *

They pulled out of town, back into the open desert, but they didn't go far. The cars began to ascend into the painted mountains, to a point that overlooked the sprawling city below. The road they took was narrow, and seemed seldom used. Crags and boulders whizzed by, and soon the climb tapered off enough that they rolled onto relatively level ground. The two cars rolled to a stop, and that's when Miguel's mouth ran dry. 

Through the windshield, he could make out other vehicles. The dust kicked up by their rides was just beginning to settle – they were no longer on a paved road. The first one that took his attention was a yellow hummer. The second was a dark GMC truck, and the last… why hadn't he noticed it first?

It was a blue-on-red semi-truck with painted flames blazing across its sides. Even more noticeable was its size – it was enormous. All three vehicles faced the new arrivals, completely immobile. Miguel began to feel his heart accelerate, and he stole a glance over to Claire. Her lips were half-parted, and her hands had folded over themselves in her lap. She seemed engrossed by the view in front of her, and only snapped out of her stupor when he shook her shoulder.

His coworker gave him a startled acknowledgment, and then swallowed slowly.

The sound of grinding gears stole their attention away from one another. Both of Smokescreen's doors opened, and Miguel and Claire reluctantly took the cue to exit the car. As they did so, their eyes saw what their minds could not believe.

The sibilant slide of metal on metal resonated through the air. Both Claire and Miguel had their mouths open, jaws slack, and were so wrapped up in the moment that they hadn't noticed Sam and Mikaela were also standing nearby.

The three vehicles ahead shifted, twisted,and_ inverted _in ways Miguel's mind could not follow. It was like watching knots come loose on their own, following a route only they knew to take in order to come away undone.

They fell away from a form, temporarily lost one, and then reformed. They stretched upward, moving ever towards the skies.

Claire gasped.

Miguel started shivering, a fine tremor that started in his fingertips and streaked through his entire body. It was so unlike him, so unfitting, but he was helpless to stop it. The vehicles were no longer that – they were mechanical monsters that towered above the four humans. Behind them, vents hissed and the resounding clamor of metallic elements groaning under a great weight got their attention.

Claire was the first to wheel around, and skittered backwards several steps when she saw that Smokescreen and Bumblebee had transformed too.

They were surrounded. Miguel's mind flashed back to the memory of the bartender and his rifle, standing so bravely on the ruined foundation of his livelihood while _El Diablo_ leered overhead. It was the epic of David and Goliath all over again. The contrast between the sizes he saw in his mind's eye filled him with a fear incomparable to anything he had ever experienced. He was now the bartender, standing on a remote speck of land while a circle of alien leviathans penned him in and advanced closer.

…And he didn't even have a weapon.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine. 

**A/N:**Wow, 40,000 words with this insertion. Yikes! I was also very, very touched! So many people gave me feedback for that last chapter. I really love getting it, so I want to thank each one of you!

**Soului:** I know what you mean about those 'update' reviews. It seems easier to just write out, "Update plz" or "Good story, update soon". It doesn't get to the nitty-gritty. I want to know what people think, and I thank you for the time you took to write that review!

**dandyparakeet:** Yeah, Miguel might be in trouble later… or not. I can't decide what I want his denial to do to him. We'll see as he tells me! And yes, Smokescreen is getting nicer. Not to everyone else, note, but maybe he'll start easing up some on Claire…

**Kia:** Thanks for the review! I am trying to keep this fic real, as much as possible anyways. I want the humans in the story to react as humans would if they were truly presented with this set of circumstances. A lot of stories gloss over the surprise and terror that this would do to someone, and pretty soon you have your main character talking smack to Megatron without fear of reprisal.

**soaringphoenix:** I love that you love that I do that – if that makes sense? LOL. I love selecting those quotes or songs for each chapter, since it lets me dig through a bunch of music in order to find lyrics that will best fit the situation in the chapter. As far as Claire and Smokescreen goes… well, I will be doing a pairing with them in the story as it unfolds (as noted in the summary), but it won't be typical. They have lots to work through, lots of obstacles. There might be some sort of sympathy for each other developing for each other now, but they are still robot and human. That in of itself is a whole story. I can't get into that fully because there is a plot to this fic and that needs the most attention. Buuuut… it is a strong subplot. Their ending is still up in the air, but I'm positive it won't be happily-ever-after. It won't be tragic, but it'll be… well, it'll just be. You'll see. ) Thank you for the support!

**Elariel:** I really think that this may be a first for this category too. It's kind of cool to think that, at least! I am also endeavoring to keep Claire as far from Mary-Suedom as possible. If she ever gets there, tell me so I can take myself out back and put a gun to my head… okay, kidding. ) Thanks for the review!

**Elita One:** Well, it does look like you had a good thought… because they just met practically everyone!

**Miguel's Translations:**

**No mames güey:**_ 'You're shitting me, holy fuck.'_

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**The Human Stain: Chapter 11**

_Winter's close...and the mountain high  
I'll start my journey now  
On this planet we call Earth we belong  
I want to know  
Why did God make me feel  
There is more to be answered  
Maybe God cannot remedy  
Our souls if he tried  
I seek peace of mind at least  
And to know I did my best  
I will pray for those I have loved_

_**-Kamelot, Farewell**_

* * *

It was like being trapped by a circle of inert stone sentinels from Easter Island – both had inhuman features, massive bulk, and a height to match. The main difference compounded the problem for Claire, however. These were not immobile – indeed they could move, and indeed they were capable of great destruction. 

She was suddenly glad she had grabbed her duffel bag and purse before leaving the Subaru.

The young woman had nearly lost her mind upon seeing Smokescreen in his true form. Now, surrounded as she was by five machines that no human had created, she wasn't so sure she hadn't already lost it. She backed up, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. Behind her, she felt the press of another warm back – Miguel. He had started walking backwards just as she had, and now they were back-to-back, staring in opposite directions like cornered rabbits.

"Screw this," Miguel hissed.

"Would be nice," Claire whimpered back, drawing a shuddering breath in the process. She held a thin rein of control over her body, and there was a visible strain on her features for keeping the panic at bay.

_You've seen this before. You can do this. Breathe._

She stole a glance to Sam and Mikaela, who were completely composed if not concerned. If she could simply master their indifference, she could keep the dread from blooming in her chest.

She licked her dry lips, and took a step away from the flat plane of Miguel's back. Claire concentrated on familiarity in order to cope. Sam and Mikaela were not fearful, so she could attempt that example. The second thing she looked for was Smokescreen. He was just before her, as implacable as ever, and just as much a jerk as before. That hadn't changed. His outer appearance was a new color, a vibrant blue – the same color as the eyes he had now and the eyes he had as a hologram.

Her organic eyes met his digital ones, and the shutters containing them narrowed in consideration. He hadn't said a word, and without this she felt completely displaced from what she thought she knew of him. He looked like something else, the thing in the field, so undeniably _other_.

He wasn't familiar – she could recognize but she didn't _know_ him.

Then, thankfully, he spoke.

"We will not harm you, humans."

_Yep, that's him. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. _It was enough.

"You must be the human that started this new breed of Decepticons." A new rumble, one she had never heard, erupted from behind her. Still small and scared, Claire whirled around. Come to think of it, she would rather have Smokescreen and Bumblebee at her back than the other three. She knew Smokescreen was an ass and Bumblebee was good-natured – until he crossed Smokescreen. There was nothing to be known about these others.

Claire pointed a finger at herself. "_Me?_" she squeaked.

It descended. It was the tallest of them all, an absolutely mighty being that soared over his counterparts by a good deal of distance. As it knelt on one knee, the ground beneath their feet trembled. Claire's way of coping with the situation went out the window.

Miguel wheezed.

"I assume you understand why you are here, Claire," the machine said. The voice was deep and male, coarse but commandeering. It was the voice of one who spoke with resolution and expected others to heed it. The stern countenance etched out of shiny plating only exacted this fact.

_This must be Optimus_, her mind concluded.

"Uh.. kinda…" She sounded like a field mouse talking to the combine tractor.

"Very well. I will explain more in just a minute." Optimus' eyes shifted to the left, towards what had been the GMC truck. There was a mechanized whirr from his optics as he did this, a small sound that she would not have heard had she not been so close to his head. Come to think of it, his head was nearly as tall as she was. _ Good lord_.

"I am Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots. This is Ironhide, my Weapons Specialist."

Claire forced her line of sight to slip past the massive robot to regard the slightly shorter one on his right. This one had a broad mantle and looked more complex in structure than his leader. A rotating gear spun just under his right shoulder, and the truck's hazard lights blazed despite the daylight. The exterior of the GMC truck was so dark that there was barely a contrast between the wiring, gears, skeleton and plating while in his bipedal form.

"Don't forget it," Ironhide said, and Claire suddenly had the wild thought that he sounded almost like Clint Eastwood. The massive mech cracked the struts between his knuckles, creating a splintering sound that put the best tough guy to shame.

Optimus held out his metallic metacarpus to the former Hummer next. "This is Ratchet, my Medical Officer."

Ratchet was the shortest of the three. "A pleasure," he remarked simply. His intonation was amiable like Bumblebee's, but far more educated. Also, like Bumblebee, he was a stark contrast of yellow and black. Hummer lights and a wire cage sat proudly across his chest, and his mechanical eyes were noticeably intelligent.

Claire gave the Ratchet robot a tiny nod, and began to curl and unfurl her fingers in front of her.

"I know you have already met Smokescreen, my Diversionary Tactician. Bumblebee too, of course."

"'Diversionary Tactician?'" she exclaimed, spinning around just in time to catch Smokescreen posing proudly. "I can understand the first part, but the tactical needs work."

A silence fell upon them, and then Optimus chuckled. The rumble in his chest echoed throughout his entire body, something that could not be achieved in a human. He stood once more, and narrowed his eyes slightly as Smokescreen.

"I do quite well in my role," Smokescreen sniffed, appearing stung.

"Indeed, he does. All of the Autobots here are best suited for their job, and none other can achieve quite the same results."

"H-h-how did he find me?" It was a question that had been nagging at the back of Claire's mind for some time.

"I sent out a deep-space signal to any possible survivors. Cybertron is gone, but there might have been some Autobots that fled before its destruction. Smokescreen intercepted my signal shortly after Megatron's demise and followed it here. The rest of the explanation gets more complicated."

Again with the Megatron. That was to become her next inquest, but Miguel beat her to it.

"Hey, over here," he called, timidly waving one hand back and forth. "Excuse me?"

"Yes?" Optimus' blue optics reassigned himself to the male human next to Claire.

Miguel hesitated, presumably out of intimidation. Claire didn't blame him – Optimus was on an entirely different scale than they. "Um… I guess… who _is_ Megatron?"

Optimus sighed and bowed his large head. "Long ago, I co-ruled Cybertron with Megatron. He was the leader of the Decepticons and my brother. Recently, he met his end in Mission City."

Miguel opened his mouth to speak, but then quickly shut it. He glanced at Claire for help, and found none. What was there to say to something as out-there as that? It explained some things, but it also raised more questions. In the end, the dark-haired man just shook his head and uttered a dumbstruck 'oh'.

Claire knew the subject would keep reaching further from her original question if she didn't flag it back. Drawing up her courage again, she blurted, "But how did he _find_ me?"

"I know you can come to this conclusion on your own, Claire," Smokescreen stated smoothly.

Four Autobots and four humans turned their focus on the speaker. Some looked amused, others intrigued.

She turned to regard him with a hooked eyebrow, as if daring him to cross her. The woman was rapidly finding herself more at ease as things progressed. If they wanted her dead or hurt, they would have done it already. "What if happened to ask for a little help? Just a _smidgen_?"

Smokescreen paused, caught off guard by her last word. He seemed to process the data on that before he came across its definition. "Such quaint vocabulary this mud ball has," he remarked curiously. "But, back to the subject. If you are in such dire need for an answer and your organic brain is at a standstill, I will give you the full details."

God, he's such an arrogant asshole… 

Optimus frowned, clearly disliking Smokescreen's tone. Bumblebee, who still stood next to Smokescreen, reached behind the other Autobot and touched upon a place where a spinal cord would have been located if he were human. The action gave Smokescreen a visible jolt, and Claire saw a puff of smoke and a spray of sparks shoot sideways.

Claire smiled instantly. She _liked_ Bumblebee.

Smokescreen threw a glare at Bumblebee, and rubbed his backside simultaneously. "Piece of slag, you'll pay for that!" he vowed murderously.

"Enough, you two." It was Optimus. The tone he used with them was almost impatient. Across from him, Ratchet beamed out a laser over the heads of the humans and focused it directly on Smokescreen's midsection.

"No damage," the medic reported tiredly.

Miguel and Claire were still staring in fascination when the beam dissolved into thin air.

Smokescreen stood straighter, and Bumblebee made a humming sound that might have either had something to do with mechanics or amusement – Claire couldn't tell which.

The blue Autobot reshaped the metallic plates on his face into some semblance of a scowl. "I was ordered to find you by Optimus once I arrived. I first used the Internet to scour news articles on any humans involved in accidents where they had lost a section of their body. Your Trans-Organic was the very first created by the Decepticons, so we were aware of its existence and appearance. There was one article that had a picture next to it, as well as your name and location. You matched the appearance of the Decepticon perfectly." His range of sight fell to her prosthesis, which was still covered by Miguel's oversized slacks.

Claire swallowed nervously as all the parts began to come together. "And?" she prompted. She set her duffel bag on the ground next to her feet and shifted the purse on her shoulder.

"I kept … digging, as you humans would say. After learning your initial location, I followed the … trail of papers … to a notice put forth by another local newspaper. It was brief, but it mentioned you had… you had mated… married… another human by the name of Simon Walters."

Claire thought digging was a good idea. Yes, she needed to start digging right now. The hole had to be deep, dark, and wide. She would promptly cover herself over after that – all this personal history was embarrassing. And not just embarrassing - _really_ embarrassing. "So… you…"

"…And then I discovered a useful thing called 'Facebook'."

"Lovely," she said dryly. She hadn't updated her Facebook page for nearly two years. Her life after the move had been so humdrum that she hadn't bothered. Not only that, there was also the fact that she had divorced a popular boy who had stayed by her side from the attack onwards. Her old circle of friends, even Jen, had pulled back since he had served her the papers. He had by then become friends with them, and in the end her friends were his, and they stood by him for his reasons. She crashed, ran, and ended up in the middle of the desert mixing paint. There wasn't anymore to it, save for the obvious truth - she was a coward.

"You had your current location on your profile. I found you living in this area, which is coincidentally near where Megatron died. I followed you here, and intercepted primitive electronic signals put forth from your phones. I put myself in place behind the 'garage' where you were having your car worked on. It worked out as I thought it would."

"You mean you were looking for me since…"

"For a… a month, by your species' way of measuring time." He was full of pauses, which meant he was running Internet searches left and right for the right words to fill his sentences. Without them, it would not have had much clarity. Claire was beginning to realize just how much work he had put into helping her, be it in this sense or another.

_Yeah, but that's just a function of his orders_, her mind reminded her. The thought spurned a large bout of bitterness.

"So, let me get this straight," she said, suddenly miffed. "You 'A', stalked me on the web, somehow hacked into Facebook and took down my location, then 'B', showed up at my location disguised as a loaner car because 'C', you were listening in on all my cell phone conversations!? Does this in any way strike you as _wrong_?"

"It is called espionage, not 'spying'," he corrected.

"OH. MY. GOD." Claire threw her hands up in the air, paced a couple of quick, frustrated circles in the sand and then leveled him with a glare. "You are just a piece work… _crappy_ work at that."

"_Enough_," Optimus intercepted. He took one step forward, and she felt Miguel grab her wrist. He was scared, he always would be. He had seen what those large feet were capable of pulverizing, and so had she. All eyes, organic and mechanical, went to Optimus. "It was for your own safety that I asked him to do what he did. We knew you were still alive."

"How?" she inquired, now put into place by his presence.

"We… captured the Trans-Organic and held her for a short while. She later escaped under our watch, but in the duration we had her we extracted some useful information. She was seeking you for quite some time. Her processor is much simpler than ours, and it is unable to browse the World Wide Web. Everything Trans-Organics do must be done the hard way. Nevertheless, Ratchet was able to tap into her processor in order to retrieve what she knew of you."

Miguel perked up. "So… they have weak points."

"They are a blending of organic and robotic, a supreme upgrade from their past incarnations. They have the advantages of their human donors. This extends to thoughts, memories, knowledges… but they are also at a disadvantage due to their size and limited bionics. They do not have the full range of capabilities that we and their Decepticon masters have. It does not negate their strengths, however."

"I don't get it," Claire said, pinching the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger. She began to pace nervously. "Are you saying a Decepticon bit off my leg in 1997? They said it was a great white that just wanted a taste."

Miguel snapped his eyes over to Claire. "You didn't mention that before."

Claire hit him back with her steady eyes. "No one asks. Everyone treats it like some taboo subject. It's not rude to ask me about it. I won't take offense."

Miguel didn't know how to respond to that. His eyes fell away.

"It was a shark," Smokescreen said, taking his turn to talk. "Your limb was still inside its stomach when the Decepticons captured it."

Claire blanched. "They stole my leg out of a 17 foot great white?" If that were true, the shark truly did have a predator. "How did they even know?"

Smokescreen tapped his metal cranium, and the reverberation echoed hollowly. If the situation hadn't been so serious, she would have laughed about it. "Again, the Internet. They read the news too. They found the shark the same day it took your leg. Digestion hadn't occurred at any great rate, so your limb was still intact."

"Why didn't they just come after me themselves?!"

"Decepticons would rather work below the radar if the chance presented itself. Fortunately for them, it did. They had their first Trans-Organic in need DNA, and you had lost a sample large enough."

"I-I-can't… they spawned a killer clone off a severed leg they found in a shark's stomach!?"

"That's gross," Miguel mentioned thoughtfully.

Claire smacked him on the shoulder. "No duh."

Sam and Mikaela were trading looks from where they stood adjacent to Claire and Miguel. The disgust was plainly written all over the brunette's face, and her mouth pursed to form a soundless, 'ew'. Sam merely looked intrigued.

Claire stood there, surrounded by robots and humans alike, and could definitely attest to feeling like a freak show. She readjusted the shoulder strap of her purse against her frame, and shifted her weight as well.

"How do they make them? How do they…"

Optimus' powerful voice answered her first. "We do not know. There were once Trans-Organics on Cybertron long before us, but these were sealed far below our home world. If the Decepticons somehow discovered the original schematics left by the Quintessons, it is not so unbelievable that they would attempt to pick up where the Quintessons left off."

"Quintessons?" Sam inquired quietly. He had remained silent all throughout the talks, seemingly satisfied to listen instead of contributing. Claire could see that this was a new word for him, though – heck, it was a new word for them all.

"Yes," Optimus nodded. "They lived on Cybertron long before we did and created the first sparklings of our race."

"I never heard that before," the teenager blinked.

"Indeed, it was never mentioned."

Sam looked thoughtful again, and Mikaela gave him a worried glance.

"What do we do now?" Claire asked.

"We… wait." Optimus turned, causing Ratchet and Ironhide to step aside as he took a position on the crag overlooking the city below. "More Decepticons have arrived in numbers that far surpass our own. We have not been able to locate them, but we are hoping that my signal was heard by more than just Smokescreen."

Claire frowned. It seemed suicide to stay in a small circle of Autobots while an innumerable army of Decepticons was gathering upon Earth.

Then again, she wasn't the leader of an Inter-galactic civilian militia from the planet Cybertron. What did she know?

_Still not a whole hell of a lot._

* * *

He found her just as the dark veil of night was beginning to spread across the sky. She was seated on a rocky outcropping nearby the look out with her duffel bag and purse sitting between both legs. The woman's eyes were scanning the horizon, tired and red-rimmed. The air at that height was warm and gusty, but with the approach of night came a cold undercurrent. The other Autobots were still discussing battle plans in the place she had left them, and Miguel was busy interrogating Sam and Mikaela in a small group composed only of humans. 

When the hologram sat next to her, she realized she wasn't alone. Her eyes slid sideways, taking in the image of Smokescreen's human dissimulation. She chuffed once, and then turned away. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be down there with your leader?" She craned her neck around and glanced down at the others. They were far enough away to appear as indistinct figures, but close enough that she could hear the modulations of their discourse. Smokescreen was physically still with them, but his hologram was here, with her. He had one_long_ projection range.

"I have the choice to come and go. I am not programmed to follow Optimus' every whim. I am autonomous."

Claire wracked her brain for the definition of 'autonomous' and found none. It wasn't exactly an everyday word, and she unfortunately was just an everyday person. She eventually took it to mean he had independent thought, given the context he used it in. "Alright, fair enough. Can't you find some other place to be, then?" Her tone was bitchy, and she knew it.

He did not seem to mind, strangely enough. "What's wrong with this one?" he asked idly.

"What's wrong? I'm here, that's what's wrong."

"My dear Claire, I was not of the thought that you held such a low opinion of yourself." A flinty grin spread on his hologram's features.

"Ass."

"Again, we've been over this. I am of the belief that you…"

She held up a pausing finger. "Oh, no, don't you go there again. You're nothing but a perverted jerk."

He seemed bemused by this. His grin widened. "Is it not a saying of your kind that 'misery loves company'? I only sought out another like myself. You cannot fault me for that, can you?"

Indignation filled her and she turned on him savagely. "I am not a jerk, nor an asshole. You're in that category by yourself. God, you are… you are_ infuriating!_ I'm out of here."

A sweep of disappointment filled his features, but this was just as quickly masked. "I am not trying to get on your… bad side… Claire."

"Well, congrats, here's your medal." She picked up a small pebble and tossed it at him, watching as it bounced and tumbled right on through. "You do, you did. You're all making myself and Miguel just more than a little nuts," snarled the woman. She abruptly stood and started to pick her away around the rocks in her path.

Unfortunately, he appeared just in front of her for all the world like a ghostly apparition. She gave a cry of surprise and stumbled backwards, sliding as a chorus of rocks tumbled underfoot.

Smokescreen's eyes narrowed slightly, and a knowing smile just barely curved the corners of the mouth where the grin had been a second before. Claire was panting with the adrenaline rush of being startled in such a way, but quickly recovered.

Or, at least she thought so.

The hologram's hand reached out to touch her forearm. The illusory limb passed through her physical counterpart just as she suspected it would, but the result was not exactly calculable. A faint tingle, a buzz, passed along the delicate hairs there. It was not the uncomfortable sting of friction, but more a magnetization that swept up her forearm and made her hair stand on end. _What the hell…_

"What was that!?" she gasped crossly.

He just smiled. "This hologram is formed by an electrical current. It is not entirely insubstantial."

"Go to hell," she cursed, sweeping around him. If he came down there to torment her in his usual churlish manner, she could get it. It was his personality, after all. She would simply get up and leave once the insults became too much. What really pissed her off was the fact that he had escalated it to zapping her like a lab rat. She made a careful pass around his hologram, angry at him and herself for ever being attracted to it. There was no allure to his mechanoid or car forms – indeed, it would be a scary thing if she were enthralled by it. It all boiled down to how she felt a magnetism for his holographic image that had nothing to do with the fizzle that still crept along her skin.

Still, it was quite unnatural. He was really an 20 foot robot, and she was a dinky little human. It did not mesh.

"Claire," he called from behind. His voice was softer than before, and he did not attempt to surprise her again.

She would not listen. She was already on more level ground, and made a resolute march back towards Sam, Mikaela and Miguel.

_Damn him._

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine. 

A/N: And there is Chapter 11! Will Claire and Smokescreen ever see eye-to-eye? Hm, seems it's still really rocky.

I hope you all enjoyed it… I had a lot of explaining to do in this chapter, so I hope it didn't lag much for you guys. Thanks to the reviewers who I have never heard from before, I couldn't believe you liked my OC's… but I am happy for that, really! I am in kind of a rush so I will make this author's note short instead of going into a reply for each one of you – count on that next chapter!

* * *


	12. Chapter 12

**The Human Stain: Chapter 12**

_Debbie just hit the wall  
she never had it all  
one Prozac a day  
husbands a CPA  
her dreams went out the door  
when she turned twenty four  
only been with one man  
what happened to her plans?_

_**-Bowling For Soup, 1985**_

* * *

Miguel frowned, shifting his eyes over the poorly lit interior of the 'Tranquil Rest Motel' that he was to share with Claire that night. From the roadside, the sprawling, one-story motel had weaved about the property like a snake. The building's pink plank siding was littered with peeling paint, random acts of graffiti, and overgrown shrubs. The neon sign announcing a vacancy from the road was in dire need of repair as well. The 'y' was completely burned out, and the first 'a' was threatening to follow suite. The parking lot was noticeably empty, and the sole source of light came from the glowing face of a vending machine and the interior lights of the cramped office behind it. Too tired to refuse, the two had stumbled out of the Subaru as Bumblebee parked nearby with Sam and Mikaela. The rest of the Autobots had dispersed, seemingly left to their own devices.

"You sure this is where you want to stay?" Sam called from the open window of the Camaro. Bumblebee's engine was running quietly, and Mikaela was tipping her head around Sam's to watch the proceedings.

"Yeah, we'll be ok," Claire waved back. "See you guys in the morning?"

"Yeah, we'll be here."

"Great, see you."

Truth was, there was not a damn thing available besides this quack shack. They had not thought ahead to make reservations anywhere else, and only the more expensive hotels in town had rooms available. Since they both worked at a large box store on very little pay, it was a no-brainer as to which place to select.

It was ugly, but it would have to do.

It was easy enough to book a room with two double beds. Modesty called for separate motel rooms, but their budget would not bend. Now as he stood in the dingy, cramped quarters of the 'Tranquil Rest Motel', Miguel's mind began to turn over just how many bodies were buried beneath the mattresses. It sounded like something you would name a cemetery, not a place for living people.

The carpet was well worn, complete with runs. The owner had made a valiant effort at disguising the worst parts by careful placement of the furniture, but even these were an eye sore. There was a small table with an ashtray near the door, but the maid had not seen fit to remove the last ashes left behind by the previous occupant. The television set was something from the early-nineties, complete with circular antennae. There was a bathroom the size of a walk-in closet towards the back, as well as a metal pole stretching wall-to-wall with a few emaciated metal hangers dangling from it. The beds – well, they were the nicest thing about the place. Two queen-sized sleepers sat apart from one another at the distance of three feet, both outfitted with (hopefully) clean sheets and bedspreads. There was a small nightstand between them with an even smaller lamp, and Miguel stepped across the room to open the top drawer. Predictably, there was a pocket bible inside.

"You have got to be kidding me," he heard Claire say.

"'Fraid not."

He heard her duffel bag drop heavily to the floor. "Do we know how long we'll be here?"

"No idea. Didn't that tall freak say something about waiting?"

She held both hands out from her location near the doorway, and then stepped closer to Miguel. Neither bothered to remove their shoes – it would be an insult to their socks. "But how _long_? We can't stay here indefinitely. What if we lose our jobs? Then what? I don't have enough money to carry me beyond two months."

"Same here," he admitted grimly.

He wasn't sure what they would do. They surely didn't have the money to go racing off towards an unexpected adventure, but here they were. If it involved anything less than robotic aliens from space, Miguel would have simply stayed home. As it stood, he wasn't sure if staying home had been such a bad idea after all.

He shook his head a little, jarring his senses back into focus. He noticed Claire had extracted her cell phone from her purse. She was frowning deeply as she stared down at it and pressed a small key over and over.

"_Shit_," she swore.

"What?" he asked.

"It's the Boyd garage. They've called five times and left three messages. I never heard anything since the phone was on vibrate the whole time."

"Isn't that the place Smokescreen followed you to?"

"Yeah," she hedged, glancing out the curtained window that faced the parking lot. The Subaru – Smokescreen – was still parked in the stall right outside their room. He was completely immobile, seemingly a harmless parked car.

"Then…"

"It's Mick Boyd, the owner. He called first and left a message telling me that my car was ready and he was sorry for the delay. He also said I was welcome to bring back the 'loaner' so they could report it to the police."

"Uh… wait, back up. He's reporting his own loaner car to the cops? Why would he do that?"

Claire made a high-pitched sound that escaped from the tight seal between her lips. Frustrated, she ran a quavering hand through her tangled hair and sat on the bed. Holding her hands helplessly before her, the woman narrowed her eyes. "You see, it _wasn't_ his car. I stupidly talked him into loaning me it since he had nothing else and I had to get to work. He said we'd report it to the police once I had my car fixed and we would all pretend like we had never seen it before."

"How could you _not_ see it before? He's tricked out!"

Wild eyes shot up to Miguel's face. "He wasn't, though. He was just an old beater before. Something called a Dat-son or something. He was really old and the paint was faded. When I picked you up after the bar fiasco, he just… just changed into something better somehow."

"Are you telling me he just turns into whatever car he wants to look like?" Miguel inquired rapidly.

Claire dropped her eyes to the stained carpet. "I guess…?"

"_**Sweet.**_"

"Shut up!" the woman across from him cried. "This isn't a joke. Think… I'm in **real** hot water now. We're going to have to call in sick tomorrow, and not only that… I have to explain to Mick why I can't pick up my perfectly good car and return the one none of us owns. He put me into his confidence, and … he's just been so nice to me, and I feel like I destroyed that."

Miguel was suddenly quiet. Claire stood up.

"We're supposed to be responsible adults now, Miguel. We're supposed to be responsible, _mature_ adults. Yet, here we are, jumping down the rabbit hole to play a waiting game against the Queen of Hearts. It… it doesn't work. We need to call this off." She was gesticulating in front of him now, her gray eyes hard.

"Yeah, really, what are our options!" he countered, a bit annoyed at her obtuseness. "You want to go back and have that thing find you? You're currently being hunted, I hope you know."

"It… it… I KNOW!" Claire flung her hands up once, and then feathered them as they lowered like she was treading water and drowning anyway. "This crap is not supposed to happen. It's just… not. I _hate_ that I'm being forced into a pocket and left to sit there sifting through some really crappy options. Do you know how that _feels?_"

Miguel was now in her face, full of contempt for her loss of control. "Yeah, I know how that feels! I'm here, ain't I? I'm fucking stuck just like you and _you_ introduced me to all of this fucked up shit!"

Claire reared back like she had been struck. In a way, she had.

Oblivious to her reaction, Miguel jabbed a finger in her direction. "I just find it_ really_ funny that you come across all high-and-mighty about what we should do when I _should_ be at home. Don't saddle your problems on me, I have my own." That said, he whipped around and stormed off towards the bathroom.

"Miguel, I…" He heard her voice falter behind him, but ignored it.

The cheap door slammed behind him, closing him off from any further tirade of hers. He was fuming, and felt entitled to it. Yeah, it wasn't fair that the world had bequeathed them this knowledge of aliens and all that went along with it, but he was the kind to believe that what was done was done. Stuff happened along the way, stuff worked out or it didn't - but in the end you couldn't reverse what had already happened. Then, here _she_ came, telling him off about 'mature, responsible adults'. Who the hell would be a mature, responsible adult in a situation like this one?

He splashed some water on his face after turning on one of the faucets. The surge of water was slightly comforting, but not enough. He thought back to those two kids – Sam and Mikaela, was it? It would have been so much easier to be their age again, to shirk responsibility with the knowledge that your parents would be there to catch you if you fell. Unfortunately, Miguel had a mortgage, car payments, insurance payments… the bills were nothing to be ignored. He lamented the fact they were here instead of where they should be – at work. In this, he understood Claire's frustration.

What Miguel would not tolerate was her attitude. She was a neurotic creature, he was certain of that now. He had seen it at work in the way she followed Zebrowski's orders perfectly, unwavering in what the mole-man set as guidelines. Claire always had a stick up her ass, and he was nearly close enough to telling her tonight. He figured he would, someday, if she pushed him that far.

Grimly, Miguel patted his face dry with one of the motel's towels and thought back to life as a teenager.

* * *

Outside in the bedroom, Claire crumpled to the coverlet upon the bed. Folding her head in her hands, the twenty-six-year-old woman allowed a long shudder to rack her body. 

Claire couldn't think. All the burdens suddenly became too heavy, and the weight of the world settled between her shoulders. She did the one thing she had postponed for so long, the thing she could no longer suppress.

She cried.

More tremors rode upon her muscles, causing her to quake as she sobbed. She wept into her lap quietly, attempting to keep it from Miguel's attention. She faintly heard the water running in the bathtub before the shower burst to life, and she figured it wasn't likely he would hear anyways.

As the tears ran in messy rivulets down the planes of her cheeks, she lifted her head long enough to stare towards the table where she had left her purse. There was a vending machine outside, and the idea of a Mountain Dew wouldn't be so horrible. Coughing and wiping the back of her hand against her face, Claire lifted her body and the burdens both and got up.

Rummaging through her bag, she managed to scrounge up three quarters, two dimes and a nickel. An extra quarter would have been nice, but it would suffice. Sniffling, she slipped past the motel room door.

The cold night air was shocking. The outside air temperature stole the heat from her tears, making her feel like someone blew shaved ice into her face. Shivering and trying valiantly to abate a fresh new crop of tears, Claire made her way down to the office and passed the quiet Subaru in his parking stall. She kept her head turned towards the motel as she did so, just in case he might use her appearance as fodder for later insults.

The office was still lit, and the shadow of the older man that had checked them in moved about inside. Claire scanned the selection of soda as her face was cast into a ghastly yellow light from the machine. An estranged bystander would see a hollow-eyed woman, someone who appeared older than her years. The lighting did her no favors.

Obviously disappointed that the vending machine sold only coke products, she inserted the coins and punched a bar labeled 'Mello Yello'. It wasn't as good as Dew, but it was similar enough that she could pretend.

Nothing happened. Something 'clinked' within the bowls of the vending machine, but otherwise there was no reaction.

"Oh, c'mon," she murmured. She made a fist and rapped soundly against the large apparatus, and then again harder when that proved to have no effect. "You are freaking kidding me. _C'mon!_" Now she was gripping the defiant machine by both sides, attempting to shake her soda loose. If she was much stronger and the vending machine was not bolted to the cement, she might have had more luck.

Claire awarded the contraption with a swift kick, but only ended up hopping around in circles for that one. "Owww!" 

_Eff this. I'll just go back into the room and find more change. I bet it's stuck, so now I have to buy two to knock the first one loose. I bet the motel manager has it rigged that way, anyways. Crook._ Sometimes the voice inside her skull was a rather pessimistic one.

Turning away with an unintelligible oath, the blonde was stopped in her tracks by the warm heat of a motor fanning her fingers and torso. Lifting one eyebrow, she spun around fully and was met with high beams to the face. "_Auuugghhh!_" Flinching, she closed her eyes and turned her head away at the sudden burst of blinding light.

"Need help?" a certain Subaru asked.

Still keeping her eyes averted, Claire used one free had to shoo him back in the direction he came. "No one gave you permission to leave your parking spot!" She sincerely hoped no one saw her right then, dismissing a car with words and motions. She'd be locked up for sure. Smokescreen had somehow sidled past her notice and had trapped her between his headlights and the vending machine by a small space of five feet.

Smokescreen's voice was most amused. "I told you I was autonomous. Do you understand the meaning of that?"

_No, but screw you anyway,_ her mind shot back vehemently.

"Just go. I don't need your… HOLY CRAP." She leaped sideways, and just in time – Smokescreen spun squealing wheels and flew forward. He hit the resistant vending machine squarely in the middle, shaking it to its core.

**Ka-chunk.**

Slowly, the car eased forward. A 20oz. Mello Yello was sitting in the black soda slot, just as it should have been earlier.

Sorrow was quickly replaced by anger. "You… you… you nearly killed me!"

"I had faith your reflexes wouldn't be that bad."

Snatching the plastic soda bottle from the slot, Claire settled Smokescreen with a nasty glare. "Here's what I think of your faith." Twisting the cap off, Claire held the container over the car and felt awash with thin victory as the fizz burst past the bottle and showered Smokescreen with foam and tiny droplets of carbonated soda. She had counted on the soda being pretty shaken up after getting rammed by a car like that, and luckily it had.

"**My ****PAINT!**" Smokescreen gunned his engine and zipped backwards faster than she had ever seen him move forward. It was possibly 0-60 in two seconds flat.

"That's for scaring the shit out of me." The soda was running down her wrist and arm, but she hardly took notice. All she was concerned about was gloating over the fact that she had finally got the better of him. After he was no longer under the umbrella of spray, she waited for the sizzle to settle and then took a quick swig of the drink.

"You know what that liquid does to exterior paint jobs, don't you? It's _acid!_ It will leave spots!"

"Exactly."

"What are you thinking, **human!**" The Autobot was enraged, to put it lightly. Claire found she didn't care. She felt a lot better, actually. The blonde sauntered away, past rows of doors and windows to other rooms, and tipped back another gulp of her half-depressed drink. Behind her, she heard a roar of indignation from Smokescreen's engine. He wouldn't be too stupid to change in plain sight, not there, and that fact did not do much to abate his rage. "I have to get this off, _now!_"

There was a small chance he would run her over for this transgression, but she would take her chances.

"Better start rollin', then," Claire answered coolly without turning around.

"Slaggin' squishie!"

"Rattletrap."

She couldn't tell if he had heard her or not. He was already peeling out of the parking lot, lights aimed for locations unknown. If she knew any better, he was most likely on a beeline course for Lake Mead to wash the soda off his precious paint job.

_Serves you right_. Still, in hindsight, why was she beginning to feel bad? It hit her suddenly like a pinprick, unexpected and unwanted. She really shouldn't care, not after all he put her through. He played with her like a cat with a mouse, and this was where she put her foot down. She drew the line here. In fact, maybe he wouldn't come back. If there were a higher power, he would see it fit to have mercy on her then and there and absolve her of all her sins so she could return home without fear of certain death.

It would be nice to believe, in theory. In practice she was just as much a joke to the man upstairs as she was to Smokescreen.

Claire re-entered her room and found Miguel watching PBS. He glanced up calmly when she made her presence known and motioned to the television set with the remote. "No cable. This place is a hole."

"Did you know the dirtiest thing in a motel room is the remote?" Another sip.

Miguel made a face, and she laughed. Maybe things weren't so bad, after all.

* * *

Mikaela Banes was curled up against Sam at home. Okay, so it wasn't _technically_ a home to some, but it was a home to her. Mikaela's room was small, awash with blues and purples. A single daybed hugged one corner, and a small writing desk stood nearby. The wallpaper was a sky blue, the bedspread violet, and the carpet off-white. Her bedroom was possibly the best looking interior space within the entire trailer – her father was rarely home, and therefore his room was bare and bereft of life. Mikaela's mother had run off with another man when she was six, and the teen barely had any memories of the woman. Her father and mother had never married, which made it all that much easier for the woman to shirk the responsibility she had to her fledgling family and slip away like a shadow.

Yeah, a shadow. That would be the best description of the woman who gave birth to her. She had a few old pictures, but the memories were fuzzy and ill defined. They coalesced from the textured corners of her mind – sounds, sights, and feelings of need. The woman they targeted had no face, just a figure. They cropped up often when Mikaela was at her lowest like vengeful spirits, and it was only when her mood shifted that she could dismiss them.

Her father barely spoke of her mother, which was understandable. Money was tight when she was young, but despite his criminal history John Banes did care greatly for his daughter. Instead of leaving her to her own devices when he went out for 'work', he would take her with him. He couldn't afford a babysitter, but he did his best. In that way, Mikaela was very devoted to him – devoted enough to gain a juvenile record for tagging along with a car thief.

That was all in the past, however. Her juvenile record had been discreetly cleared after the Hoover Dam showdown. She had Sam to thank for that.

Speaking of Sam, he was currently attempting to slide the strap to her tank top over one shoulder. She slapped at him playfully, giggled, and flashed him a grin. He smiled back, and the two radiated in the comfort they gave each other. They had driven back to Mikaela's trailer court to drop her off, but Sam had dallied like always. Bee was parked outside, a sympathizer of their procrastination. He would be in no hurry.

"C'mon, Sam." They were both on her bed, leaning up against the headboard. Sam had to push several of Mikaela's stuffed animals aside just to make room for them when they first got there. Mikaela thought they were silly, but idols from childhood were never easily given up.

"What?" he gave her an endearing look, one too deviously innocent to pass her notice.

"You know!" They had been dating for a few months now, and hadn't gone anywhere past third base. It wasn't for lack of want – Mikaela was very experienced with sex but had made the mistake of going too fast and far with Trent, her last boyfriend. With Sam… well, she wanted to take it slow. Sam never admitted to it, but she was pretty sure he was still a virgin. He was always trying to get her to take it in new directions, but his movements and caresses were unrefined and rushed. She was the sane one when it came to their moments of physical intimacy, but she feared Sam would take it the wrong way every time she stopped him from going further.

I wonder if it would ruin everything if we took that last step, Mikaela mentally sighed. She wanted to be with him just as much as he wanted to be with her, but she just couldn't allow herself to be the one to ruin them.

"I don't know," the boy said, rolling her over beneath him. He touched his nose to hers, and she chortled. 

"Sam… hey, can I ask you a few things?"

"Huh?" He shifted, and she felt his weight lift. He angled himself so that he was still bent over her, but slightly to the side. He looked concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Just… those people. Do you trust them?"

"Optimus seems to." Sam shrugged his shoulders, as if that qualification was all he needed.

"I don't know… they just… it seems odd that they were brought here by that new Autobot."

"Yeah, well, the lady kind of had her DNA stolen. I think it's a good reason." He paused, and appeared to be in a state of thought. Slowly, his slack features regained their humor. "Heeeey… are you maybe jealous that we aren't the only ones that knows about them now?"

"You're such a dork." She reached behind her, pulling a pillow free. She threw it at his face, and he caught it with a laugh. The brunette giggled again, and then let out a defeated rush of air from between her lips. "You know, maybe you're right."

"I _knew_ it!" he crowed, pushing the pillow aside.

Mikaela sat up straighter, causing a disappointed Sam to move away and make room. "I dunno, I guess I just thought we'd be the only ones." Her hands caught up with her boyfriend's, and she twined her digits into his. "You know?" Mikaela's eyes met meaningfully with Sam's.

The teenager's face softened. "Yeah, I know. I guess I thought that too… but hey, inevitably more people will learn about them. They can't be our secret forever."

Mikaela smiled a little at that, somewhat reassured. "I suppose you will always have Bee, too."

"You bet. Bee is my guardian, just like you are my girlfriend."

He's so corny. I love it.

Mikaela Banes leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Sam Witwicky's neck. "…And you are my boyfriend," she murmured into his nearest ear as he raised his arms to return her embrace.

Over her shoulder, Sam smiled and closed his eyes.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** And there is chapter 12. I had fun with that soda scene, admittedly. Will those two ever call a truce?

Oh, and I just want to mention I am actually working on a picture of these two in photoshop. I'm somewhat of an illustrator, so you'll see that once it is done. I am moving in three weeks, so expect a week of downtime around April 7th-14th. Sorry! I also am curious: Do you guys prefer longer chapters (about almost double the size of these) or more frequent updates? Up to you, I can do either.

**Caz:** Thanks for noticing how I described Optimus! I guess I just thought he would be intimidating if it were me, so it naturally came across that way. Oh, and Claire did manage to kick him in the 'holographic balls' in this chapter, in her own way. XD Score one for Claire!

**Elita One:** Yeah, she is usually on the receiving end of the crap thrown her way. She got to throw it back for once!

**soaringphoenix:** About all the explanations: you are welcome! I didn't want to bore you guys by droning on about how this and that strings together, but I had to get it in somehow. Smokescreen and Claire have a ways to go yet to understand one another, but I would say Smokescreen definitely has an interest in her by this point. He's just going about it all wrong, like you said. XD I am updating as soon as time allows me to, trust me! Thanks so much for the constant reviews. )

**mariosonic:** Thank you thank you! That is SUCH a nice compliment, it really is. I love it when people love what I write. And.. your n00b side is right. ClairexSmoke 4eva! Lol.

**Elariel:** Actually, I never noticed that line until you pointed it out. Wow, that is kind of funny. I guess I just wrote it and didn't see it for the humor until you posted it. I'm out of it… but thanks for the review!

**dandyparakeet:** That's a good idea to have Claire and Bee have a little sit-down and talk about Smoke over coffee. I'm sure Bee could give her some good pointers, but I think she's getting a good idea of how to handle him now. I might just do the Bee and Claire thing now that you brought it up, though!

**I play wid fir3:** -gives cookie back!-

**BlueStar:**I love the long review! Yes, I chose Smokescreen because he had the bad boy attitude and he wasn't at all a common transformer. I sifted through them all before writing the story just to find him. I am also relieved you like the plot and the pacing; I really get anxious that the pacing isn't fast enough. Some chapters like this one are 'filler' chapters, but without them there wouldn't be much character development. I believe the plot is very important and primary to a good story, but the characters need depth or you just have cookie cutters running around playing out your plot like bad actors. Thank you again for the review!

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**The Human Stain: Chapter 13**

_'Cause I've still got yesterday, running wild, yesterday  
When I close my eyes I drift away  
Back where I come from  
Today may not be fair and tomorrow may not be there  
But I've still got yesterday_

_**-Emerson Drive, Yesterday**_

* * *

_**Silicon Valley, CA**_

* * *

Simon Walters adjusted his tie.

He was staring at himself critically in the full-length mirror before him. His reflection frowned, lifted an eyebrow and then leaned closer to his owner to inspect a small cut created by an electric shaver. Simon ran his clean-cut fingers over the scrape, assessing the extent of the damage before straightening once more. He was dressed in a suit and tie, his usual attire, and it was another morning on the west coast. His impeccable appearance was mostly thanks to his Versace suit, polished shoes and careful grooming habits. His brown hair was still full, but darker than that of his youth. The mirror man facing him concluded that he still carried himself well, if not better, than he had in the past. Sharp angles and a square jaw made for defined facial features, complete with a patrician nose. He pulled back one navy blue sleeve, and glanced down at the Urwerk watch attached to his wrist. It was expensive, like most things he owned.

7:00 a.m. There was still plenty of time to get to the office and grab a cup of coffee on the way. He lived in a gaited property in Atherton, where the average family household made in excess of 210,000 dollars a year. It was one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the Valley, and for good reason – it was the home of the Siliconaires.

The Siliconaires were stereotypically defined as a group of white-collar office workers who attended prestigious schools such as Harvard, Stanford, Yale, or MIT. They worked long hours and craved the higher rungs on the corporate ladder like a dog slavers for meat. They hardly enjoyed the fruits of their labors, be it expensive homes or trophy wives. All they could see was that seat as a corporate executive to a multi-billion dollar company, that absolute power – and Simon fit this mold more than most. He had graduated from Santa Cruz High in a beachside hippie town with great grades. His SAT was only a few points away from perfect, and he was easily admitted into nearby Stanford. Like many of his ilk, he did well in college. His girlfriend at the time, later his ex-wife, went to Santa Clara University nearby. A good school, but nothing compared to his Alma Mater. He scored an internship with Sequoia Capital, a highly regarded venture capital fund in Menlo Park near school. It was the very fund that financed Google and YouTube. After graduation, he went from an internship to a true employee. He was a driven man, shrewd and intellectual. His superiors saw this, and offered him a job. During this time, he had also gotten married.

But that was just a footnote, really.

His M.B.A. came next, followed by more and more lofty aspirations. He saw a goal, attained it, and eyed the next like a hawk. There was no stopping him, nothing that could keep him from living the life his parents should have given him. He had been well-liked in high school. After his divorce (his ex-wife was never very career-minded) he had gone on to date another girl from his high school days – Jennifer Kingston. Claire, his ex-wife, well – she never knew. They never told her. Jennifer was now a marketing manager in Mountain View, and was a much better match for him than Claire had been. It was never a matter of attraction, indeed he had been very attracted to Claire initially – it was more their perception of the world. They were inherently two different people, and that could never be reconciled.

Adjusting his tie one more time and double-checking his appearance one last time, Simon Walters turned away from the mirror and left his walk-in closet. He lived alone in a three bedroom house that sat along a street with many more like it. It was a large Spanish revival, built with beige stucco hues and Moroccan tile. The grand staircase he took to reach the first floor curled gently downwards to touch upon a marble foyer, complete with stone urns strategically placed within the walls. The front of the house was paned glass, and the grand double doors were mahogany wood. His ex-wife had shared the home with him shortly before they split, and thankfully the judge bequeathed it to him when the divorce settlement had been reached. He had not only paid for it, but it was in his name as well.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the cavernous foyer as he stepped across the hard floor. He walked into an adjoining room, a study with a massive wooden fireplace and executive desk. A slim desktop computer perched atop it, and next to it was his briefcase. Simon placed his hand around the handle and lifted, taking it with him. His freehand dug into the pocket of his slacks, fiddling with the keys to his Porsche 911. They jingled responsively, and he knew he was set.

A window shattered.

Simon's head instinctually snapped in the direction of the sudden sound. It had originated from the rear of the mansion, toward the east wing where the golf course ran along the property lines. It had to be the sunroom.

Fearing that some careless golfer had finally launched a ball through one of the windows, the man set down his briefcase and strode purposefully to the back of the house. He had always thought this would happen, indeed he had brought it up several times at homeowners meetings. The neighborhood's country club had a long stretch of green that ran by his house too close for comfort. All it would take was one inexperienced golfer (and indeed, there were many) and he would have a situation like this one. Cursing, Simon entered the sunroom. Like the name suggested, it was composed mainly of tall windows that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. He was never one with a green thumb like Claire had been, so once she left he had replaced her plants with a pool table and wet bar. The businessman's brown eyes scanned the contents of the room, seeking the source of the disturbance. He did not find a golf ball, but he did find the perpetrator.

It was something that even the farthest reaches of his mind could not fathom into existence. He had never been very imaginative – while his logic, intellect and business sense was a shining contribution of humanity's global economy, his creativity was lackluster in comparison. As a child he could neatly fill in coloring books, but he could never draw an original picture. The picture of what he saw before him only entered his mind by the severe force of its presence.

The nightmare was near the middle of the room, with the shattered window it had walked through just behind it. It had a human form and stood six feet tall. It looked like it was out of a medical book – a human deprived of skin and stripped down to the main muscle groups. The very startling difference was that the 'muscle' consisted of metal, hoses, and wires. They formed a human shape, twining together much like the separate elements of a human body. It had no eyes, just hollow pits with a dim red light near the back. The head was skull-like, save for the joints and gears that acted as muscles and moved the face to emit a leering smile. There was a hiss of air as compressors tightened and created the pressure needed to move the thing's toothless mouth upwards. The skull was plated with what might have been steel, and when it lifted its arm towards him, an array of wires whipped outward from its body.

He might have screamed, he could not really tell. Sound began to drown into the background, and the thing's corded tentacles wove around him and inserted themselves into his flesh. The man felt a brutal sting from each penetration point, and then he realized it was _injecting_ him with something. His knees gave out and he fell to the floor, dazed. The abomination walked up to him, still smiling its ghastly grin. The last tube paused just above his forehead, and then reared back like a viper just before that last, lethal strike.

There was a short bloom of pain as the tentacle drove itself through his skull and into his brain, and then all fell into darkness.

He felt no more.

* * *

_o…Before she existed here, she existed before, in memory...o_

* * *

Claire finds herself walking along the Santa Cruz boardwalk under a setting sun with her boyfriend.

A warm wind comes from off the ocean, and seabirds perform aerial acrobatics overhead. She feels young and whimsical, which in itself feels strangely foreign. They are holding hands, swinging the link between them as they move. Simon's hand is warm and firm, just as she remembers it to be.

It strikes her as odd that she would think of it like that. _Wasn't it always this way?_

She can hear everything – the cries from the carnival rides, pinball bells, and the excitement of dusk on the seaside boardwalk. They descend a few stairs to the beach, and Claire takes off one sandal so that she can feel the sand beneath the sole of her good foot. Her other limb is a prosthesis, obscured by her jean leg.

The roar of the surf dominates the airwaves, followed secondly by the call of the sea gulls. Farther still, sea lions bark from beneath the long wharf that stretches out into the ocean to the right. A salty breeze stirs the stray wisps of hair framing her face, and it tickles. Twirling the sandal on one finger, Claire glances over at Simon. His tan face is gorgeous, his hair unruly, his spirit undaunted.

She loves him.

The girl leans over, and pecks the boy next to her on the cheek. He startles at the action, turns to look at her, and then rewards her with a deepening kiss on the lips.

But his eyes – his eyes are not closed, nor are they on her. They are sideways, looking out to the red horizon and the late summer sun.

_He was always that way_, she acknowledges. Her mind questions the knowledge of the _was_, and the scene falls like the sand between her toes towards oblivion.

* * *

The room slowly came into focus all around her, and morning peeked through the thin curtains beyond the window. The bedspread suddenly seemed too heavy and restrictive, so she rose to sit up. The young woman put a hand to her head, closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. When she opened her eyes again, the details of last night came rushing back even though her mind was still fixated on the dream she had just lost.

Why was her subconscious so interested in replaying old memories? Frankly, she would rather not relive them – it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Flinging the coverlet aside, Claire hopped up on one leg before losing her balance and falling back to the bed. She threw a glance over her shoulder to her slumbering neighbor, who was curled up on his side and facing the bathroom. He was snoring rather loudly, which was the most likely reason she had wakened. Quietly thankful to him for interrupting her dream (or nightmare, depending on interpretation), Claire forced a small smile. When her eyes fell away from Miguel, they drew themselves to her stump. The blonde stared at her severed leg long and hard, as if willing it away through wishes. Nothing happened, of course, so with a weary sigh she pulled the prosthesis from against the nearby wall. Holding it with one hand, she hopped on one leg across the shabby room to the shower.

Once she was clean and her prosthesis was donned, Claire exited the bathroom. Her hair was still wet, but without a blow dryer she would have to live with it. She felt slightly better than the night before, a result gleaned from her new state of cleanliness. Miguel was still sleeping, still snoring, so Claire merely passed him by and went outside to see if Smokescreen or the two kids had returned with Bumblebee. She wasn't aware of the time, but it was pretty darn early if she went by the position of the sun in the sky – it was barely halfway over the horizon.

She stared towards the emerging orb in the open doorway for a moment, and immediately thought of Simon. It was so unlike her – he rarely entered her thoughts anymore. It had been years, after all.

_I can't be still carrying a torch._

Her head rocked side to side as she shook it, clearing herself of the ridiculous assumption. When her eyes reopened, they darted to Smokescreen's parking stall. The lot was empty, devoid of yellow Camaros or teenagers.

Smokescreen was back, however. He must have managed to get the soda off in time, too. His exterior was completely unmarred by flaws, and Claire was quietly relieved. She did feel slightly bad about her behavior last night – it was juvenile to be true, but he had just pushed her too far.

"Hey," she said in a low voice.

There was no immediate response, and Claire feared the Autobot might still be angry with her. She crept closer, and leaned against the dusty pink siding that covered the exterior of the motel. "Anyone home?"

"I was recharging," griped the car. His voice seemed slightly fuzzy, and Claire was surprised to find herself comparing it to someone who had just woken up.

"You mean sleeping?"

"We do not 'sleep'. We recharge," he corrected edgily.

She instantly understood his icy tone. He _was_ holding a grudge.

"Hey, uh…" She touched her forehead anxiously, glanced sideways, and then hastily shifted her weight. "I know this will sound kind of strange, but I guess… I just wanted to… apologize."

"Oh?" Smokescreen's voice was piqued with interest.

"Yeah, uh…" She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes, and appeared reticent. It really seemed unfair that she was the one apologizing for the **one** thing she had done to cause him grief. Seemed he had six times as many apologies to bestow upon her – not that he ever would.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't of done that to you. It was childish," she grated. There, it was done.

"Apology accepted."

Silence.

"So, uh…" Claire prompted, winding one hand in a circle as if to encourage him to go forward with his own atonements. "Do you have anything to say to me?"

A pause. "No."

"_**What!?**_"

"What would you have me say?" He seemed genuinely delighted to hear her suggestions.

"You're kidding me. You have so _much_ to apologize for," the woman pointed out.

"Like what?"

"Like… nearly killing me last night!" Claire shouted. Thankfully, the pothole-ridden parking lot was still mostly empty, save for the cars of a few customers and employees on the far end.

"I was actually trying to help you, if you recall. You were also quite ungrateful." His voice was matter-of-fact, meant to brook no opposition.

She gave it, anyways. "No, no, _no_. You charged me when I was still between you and the vending machine! You didn't even wait!"

"I told you, I had faith in your reflexes."

Claire gave a hissed oath. "You're just like Simon. All you can do is see one way, and that is _your _way." Furious, she spun on her heel and began to march back into the motel room.

"Wait."

That one word, so simple, stopped her. It wasn't necessarily the word in of itself; it was the tone that was used along with it. It sounded almost… desperate.

Desperate was a word she would never even begin to link Smokescreen to, but she could have sworn she heard it.

Slowly, she turned around to face him again. "…Yes?"

"I would like to…"

_Apologize_, her mind hopefully finished. It was not to be.

"…call a truce."

Claire blinked. "A truce?"

"Yes, that is what I said." His tone was dry.

"But…" she trailed, not quite sure what to make of that. On one hand, she was disappointed in him. She had believed he was so close to actually coming clean for all the crap he put her through, and now he was asking for a truce as if they were on equal ground for their sins. It was preposterous! He always did have some nerve.

But maybe, just maybe, that's what she could say about herself.

A truce, a peace offering. It wasn't an apology, it never would be, but it was at least an exit from the constant barrage of insults, be they acted or verbal. She was more frustrated with the recent turn of events than she had been during any point in the divorce from Simon. If it were possible to make any part of her life easier, even this one, she would gladly take it.

"Deal. You know what this means, right?" She held out her index finger, and laid the opposite one across it to tick off the beginning of a list. "No more derogatory remarks, for one." She tapped the two digits together to lay down the first point, and then moved on to her middle finger for the next. "Two, you shall stop scaring the shit out of me. I mean it. No more sudden moves which lead me to think that my time on this Earth is up."

"I wouldn't try to put you offline…" he protested abruptly, as if offended by the thought.

"Uh-uh," she chided, waving her pointer finger at him. When it effectively quieted the Autobot, she continued. "Three… you will attempt to be at least tolerable. I know asking for you to be nice is a bit too much, so just… try to be less offensive, if possible. Addressing me by my name instead of 'human' is a good start."

The Subaru's engine grumbled.

Claire waved a hand at him. "Your turn. What are your conditions for the truce?"

His voice indicated relief that it was finally his time to lay down the law. "My major concern is that vile liquid you call soda. I do not wish to see it in your possession around me ever again."

A ghost of a smile frosted her lips.

"Secondly, I ask that you stop ignoring me like a parked car when I am addressing you."

Confusion mottled her features. Had she been ignoring him? How? She thought back to last night as she calmly left him to rot with his paint problem and the way she had walked off on him in a huff at the lookout. Realization dawned at how rude she had been. _Oh_.

"Third, I would like that male human… _Miguel_… the man you brought along… I would like you to suggest he use my air conditioning. You are both leaking liquid all over my interior without it."

"Leaking _what?!_"

"You are…" There was a long pause as he researched the correct term through his connect with the Internet. When he found it, Claire noticed that his high beams flashed with inspiration, much like the proverbial light bulb would go off in a human's head. "…sweating."

Well, that was rather embarrassing. The truth hit her like those unexpected waves during the shark attack. "I… er… alright. I'll mention it to him."

"I am not _breathing_ on him," Smokescreen added defensively. "I do not breathe. That is something only you hum-- only you do."

Claire noted the correction near the end of his statement, and nodded approvingly. This just might be the start of a beautiful… _something_. "Alright, I agree to your terms. Do you agree to mine?"

"If I must," he ground out. If he had teeth, she imagined he would be grating them in reluctance.

"Great. Well, I had better see if Miguel is up. I also have some calls to make." Acting nonchalant despite the great victory she had just attained, the human woman turned to face her room again.

"Claire." He stopped her again, this time with her name. It had a rather poignant effect on her.

"Yeah?" She did not bother to turn around. He would still just be a stationary Subaru in a pitted parking lot, and she would just be her crippled self. Nothing would be different.

"Thank you." The words were the most genuine thing she had ever heard him say, and it rang through her person with the clarity of a chime. Her back went ramrod straight for a second, and then the tension slipped from her shoulders altogether. The phantom smile widened, and became more corporeal.

"Welcome," she whispered back, before disappearing into the motel.

* * *

They both called into work, and faced an irate assistant manager as a consequence. His angry voice buzzed across the phone, first to Miguel and then to Claire. They dialed the store in quick succession, but thankfully Zebrowski did not clue into their mutual absence. He seemed to take it merely as coincidence that the two both called in again. They did not act as anything more than acquaintances working together while on shift under Zebrowski's watch, so he suspected nothing more than a sickness circling about the store.

Claire's second call that morning was a bit more cringe worthy. She dialed the Boyd garage, and held her breath when John picked up.

"'Ello?" he answered.

"Hey, John, it's Claire."

"'Bout time you called." In his usual manner, John Boyd said nothing else besides what was absolutely necessary. There was a broken clip of sound as John got off the phone and handed the receiver to his father.

"Claire! Where are you? I've been trying to get a hold of you for awhile now, girl. You should have called sooner." There was a stern undercurrent to the older man's tone, which let Claire practically feel his blatant displeasure with her.

"Sorry, Mick, I really am." She began pacing the strip of soiled carpet before both of the beds. Miguel was in the bathroom again, doing god-knows-what, and the few belongings they had brought with them were packed and ready to go. Sam and Mikaela were waiting outside in the Camaro along with Smokescreen, so Claire felt particularly rushed to end the call after giving Mick a quick update. She had two options: she could tell the truth, which would no doubt cause her more conflict, or she could lie. Honestly, no pun intended, she was tired of fabricating stories. She hated it. On the other hand, Mick would definitely call the police on her if she explained that the car she loaned had suddenly changed into a Subaru who could also – _by the way_ – transform into a humanoid robot about twenty feet tall.

Not only that, he wasn't the only one. _Yes Mick, it is a he… not an it. How, do you ask? Let me explain… _

She shook the scenario from her brain with a quick turn of her head. Looks like she had to lie again.

Claire sighed.

"Uh… well… you see… it was stolen. Someone stole it the night you loaned it to me, right off my driveway." The lie had a grain of truth to it, and she would do her best to sprinkle those in any chance she got. "They must of hotwired it. They… they just drove off with it. I heard the engine running and by the time I got up, I saw the car taking off down the street. It was dark, so I couldn't see the driver."

Mick Boyd was silent on the other end for almost thirty seconds. She had a bad moment where she thought he had hung up on her, so she questioned his presence. "Mick…?"

"I'm here. Damn, Claire. Damn." His voice was dumbfounded, torn between the point of belief and disbelief. "I, well… I don't know what to make of that. Such a nice car."

"Probably why he was stolen." _Yeah, right. Smokescreen looked like a piece of junk before._

"…He?"

She froze. _Shit_. "Er, yeah, I mean… she? Cars are female, right? Sorry, I get them mixed up. He … _she_ is … _was_… such a masculine car." Heat rose in her cheeks, and she wasn't sure why. Embarrassment at being caught in her ruse – had to be.

"…Right…" the man trailed dubiously, and then fell silent again. He left the line dead for a few more seconds, but Claire could feel his mind turning. It was a very prickly situation, and she knew she had him stuck. "Well," he began reluctantly, "I don't know what we can do. We can't report this, obviously."

"I know," she affirmed, "It would raise too many questions."

"We never reported it in the beginnin', which we should of."

"I'm so sorry, Mick, I…"

"It's alright, Claire, these things happen… I suppose I'll let John know too. We'll keep quiet. We'd be hurt just as badly by this getting out as you would. Should of kept to the straight and narrow from the start." He uttered a swift curse.

It was true. If Mick believed her story and reported the car stolen, it would force the police to question how she had come into possession with it in the first place. Not only was this a confounding problem, there was also the fact that she was driving about in an unregistered Subaru at present. She would be labeled a car thief, and the Boyds would be accomplices. It was one nice, tight trap that she had put them in. Needless to say, she felt lower than a street thug. "I really don't know how to thank you for this, Mick, if you ever need anything, please…"

"I'm not happy about this, Claire, and I don't think I'll ever pretend to be." Mick's tone was grave and curt. She could not blame him. He hadn't once used her name in the sing-song way he usually did, which was a very bad sign.

"I understand, I…"

"I think in the future, if you would like anything done on your car, you need to find another place. I just can't risk this business and you've put several generations of my family's good name into hot water."

Her stomach dropped. He was telling her to never come back.

Mick continued, "…You can come pick up your car today, but that's the last time I want to see you on the property. Y'hear?"

Shocked, Claire could only stare at the motel's far wall. It came in and out of focus, mirroring the thoughts in her mind. "Y-yes, I understand."

"I don't know why you didn't call earlier. My youngest said he got a call from you the day you brought your car in, but that's it. You need to be more responsible."

"S-Sorry, Mick…"

"It's all water under the bridge now. Just make sure you come by today and get your car or we'll have it towed."

_Fuck._

"Mick, I need more time…"

"You're soundin' awfully suspicious. That's exactly why I do not want to do business with you anymore. Just get your car and get out."

There was a '_click_', and then the phone went dead.

Claire was still holding her cell phone to her ear, as if oblivious that the call was really over. Mick had just hung up on her, and furthermore he wanted her to stay away from his business. The day was just nose diving.

Slowly, Claire lowered the mouthpiece from the side of her cheek and slid the phone shut. She dropped the item into her purse, and took slow steps towards the duffel bag on the floor. The woman bent down and lifted it, before settling the shoulder strap across her collarbone. Still dumbstruck, she shuffled for the motel door and out into the bright sunlight.

If anyone was keeping score, she was undoubtedly in the negative.

* * *

The day passed rather unproductively for both Claire and Miguel. They first rode to the lookout in Smokescreen with the Camaro containing both Sam and Mikaela just ahead. Claire had protested the entire length of the drive about pulling a Uey in order to retrieve her car. She no longer cared much for her dealings with the mechanical aliens; she could only think about paying more out of her pocket to some tow manager in order to get her car back. The entire situation was an absolute nightmare, and she was on the verge of tears again.

Smokescreen and Miguel ignored her entreaties for the most part. They stopped by the lookout and met the other Autobots before Optimus briefed them about what they had discovered since last night – which wasn't a whole lot. Apparently there were several new Decepticons in the area, those of which none of the other Autobots had ever encountered. Optimus had managed to intercept a few of their communications (the 'how' of this was never fully explained to Claire) and found them in the vicinity. They were no doubt new recruits from the fallen transporters. Optimus and the others seemed more concerned on the idea that more Cybertronians had survived than was initially thought than the actual fact that they were _here_, on Earth. No new Autobot identities had surfaced, even though there had been some hope held that any number of the transporters had contained a dozen or so.

Miguel was rapt with attention during all this, as were Sam and Mikaela. Claire would continually sneak longing glances to the road leading out of the lookout much like an impatient student would look to the door for freedom during a long lecture. Even though it seemed they were facing a takeover by Decepticons (another one of Optimus' theories), all she could think about were her own problems. It was a typically human thing to do, and she was no different than the average. Miguel would have been doing the exact same thing if he were not as burdened as she.

The briefing ended early in the afternoon, but it seemed forever to Claire. She found it vaguely interesting that Optimus and the other aliens believed that they were at the focus of a planetary invasion when – wait for it – surprise, surprise, they were extraterrestrials _themselves!_ The viewpoint they took was very human in concern, which worried her on more than one level. If Optimus could have such a human perception for things, that meant Smokescreen could too. Granted, he always seemed to be on the opposite end of the playing field when it came to her, but he was more the disgruntled fan yelling insults from the sidelines in hopes that the player – herself – would shape up for the endgame.

_Ha, not likely._

The talks ended, and the Autobots shifted back into cars. It was really an amazing feat to observe, and even Claire could forget her pending issues when she watched them transform. They took mind-bending twists and turns at a phenomenal rate of speed, almost like a rubik's cube completing itself on fast forward.

Once they reassembled themselves into their Earthly guises, they broke off to continue with tasks only they knew of. Ironhide and Ratchet left immediately, while Bumblebee idled to speak with Optimus. At least, Claire _thought_ they were speaking – just not in a way she could audibly understand it. Both were parked side-by-side, oddly quiet save for the intermittent creak of their frames as their weight settled.

The wind picked up, and a grain of sand blew right into one eye. She rubbed irritably at the offended area just as her eyes began to water. Her greatest wish was to be home, knowing she had a normal car - no guns, lasers, or shape-changing abilities, thank-you-very-much.

Sometimes those things were just too much to ask for.

Miguel was tearing himself away from Sam and Mikaela after initiating a brief discussion with them on their next course of action. He was walking towards Claire, who stood off to the side near Smokescreen. Smokescreen, for his part, seemed to be 'recharging' or whatever he did to lapse off into a state of rest. In fact, Claire had the sneaking suspicion he had been snoozing through the latter half of Optimus' briefing. _ Slacker_.

Claire's cell phone rang.

It jostled her into action, and caused Miguel to pause mid-stride. Fumbling through the purse on her shoulder, the young woman fetched the phone and put the object to her ear with a new sense of hope. She failed to check the number first, assuming it was Mick Boyd.

"Mick? I'm so glad you…"

There was static on the other end of the call, but then a female voice floated through the earpiece. "Claire…?"

The world stood still.

"…Jen?"

The distant voice on the other end chuckled nervously. "Yeah, it's me."

"Wow. Oh, uh, hey. What's up?" The voice from her past wound it's way around Claire's heart, coiling like a snake and squeezing. Her palms began to sweat. The last time she had spoken to Jen was years ago, just after the divorce from Simon was finalized and she moved out of California.

"Oh, nothing… except…" There was urgency in her old friend's voice.

_It has to be something; she wouldn't call me out of the blue like this for nothing._

"What? What's wrong?" Claire's tenor rose in alarm.

"It's just… Simon's missing. He didn't go into work today. I've called everyone he knows. The police are already looking into it." Claire heard Jennifer Kingston's voice crack for the first time, and she sounded like she was going to cry.

_But why…? Why would Jen know first Simon didn't go into work…?_

"Wait, I don't understand," Claire said suddenly, and the knot around her heart constricted further. "How do you know that he didn't go in…?"

"I thought he told you…?" Jen stated tentatively.

"Told me _what?_ I don't talk to him anymore."

"Claire, we're dating. We've been dating for quite awhile now."

Oh.

She stood there, under the open Nevada sky, and didn't feel the freedom she should have felt. She was instead paralyzed, rooted to the dusty ground like a malformed cactus. There was nothing she could say, and her mouth ran dry. The simple words sucked the air from her world and left her dizzy and unbalanced.

"Claire, are you there? I am so sorry, I thought he…"

It took her a few more seconds to regain her hoarse voice. She sank to her knees, and bowed her head. "N-no, that's fine. Go on."

"I really shouldn't of called, I just thought you might know where he is… I'm so sorry, Claire."

_I am so sorry, Claire. That's why we're here._

Jen's words from the dream repeated through her mind like a mocking reminder, and Claire struggled to think straight. Despite her shock, she was truly worried now that she was aware Simon had not gone into work. "I… I'll let you know if I see him. I'm… sorry to hear he's gone."

"Thanks for understanding. It means so much to me. I really care about him and…"

Claire cut her off, unable and unwilling to hear anything more. "Good to know. I'll keep an eye and an ear out."

"…Thanks again…" Jen replied brokenly. The two ended their calls almost simultaneously, and then Claire chucked her phone at the gravel beneath her. It bounced once, twice, and then skittered across some loose pebbles before stopping. Miguel quietly observed this, and made a detour for the object. He bent at the waist, picked it up, and then offered it to its owner.

Claire jerked her head back and forth, stood, and took a deep breath. She noticed both Sam and Mikaela had stopped talking and were now staring at her quizzically. Both Optimus and Bumblebee were still parallel with one another, but they too faced her. Smokescreen's voice came from directly behind, and she might have noted a hint of concern in his voice. "What…?"

"Nothing," she ground out, before coming to her senses and snatching the phone from Miguel. She dropped the hated object into her purse and strode away from the group. Her legs took her to the scrub dominating the landscape, along with the crags and rocky outcroppings. Claire picked her way through the brush, climbing higher and higher. The grind of metal behind her alerted her that one of the Autobots had transformed, but she paid it no heed. The wind whipped about her ponytail, throwing long strands of blonde hair across her haggard face. She was so, so tired.

The city sprawled below, a blocky template of houses and vegetation. Birds careened in large circles above that, and Claire secretly wished to be one of them.

A twig snapped behind her – no, maybe an entire forest fell – and Claire realized that she had been followed. Her eyes turned, her head with it, and she was greeted by the rather large presence of Smokescreen. He had transformed back into his large humanoid form, and she wondered how she hadn't heard his footfalls until he was nearly upon her. It had to be pretty bad if she was so wrapped up in her inner turmoil that she wouldn't notice an earth-shaking giant coming her way.

"Hey." She leaned back against a large boulder, refusing to look up at him. It would probably give her a nasty crick in the neck, anyways.

"I overheard your phone conversation…"

Claire held up one finger. "My end or both?"

"Both." Smokescreen was a total dick, but at least he was honest.

She worried her lower lip with her upper set of teeth. "I thought I told you to cut that out." Strangely, it didn't bother her as much as it should have.

"It was not something you listed as part of the truce."

The blonde woman paused, and thought back to her conditions. He was telling the truth – she hadn't listed that. It had been an oversight on her part, unfortunately. "Well, I still would like it if you would stop." The rock behind her back was warm, almost hot.

"I suppose I can fit that under attempting to be tolerable," the large mechanoid replied. His shadow fell across her much smaller form, blocking out the light from the sun. One of his large hands fell to a spot just before her, palm open. "Would you like a lift?"

"Literally or figuratively?"

"Both."

Claire looked at the open hand for a few seconds, desperately trying to curb her lips into a disapproving line. She contained herself for as long as possible, but her laughter eventually burst out, bringing tears to her eyes. She pushed herself forward from her rocky rest, and put her trust into Smokescreen that he wouldn't drop her. He had saved her quite a few times before, so killing her was not his intent.

The metal palm rose upwards like a fast elevator, and she clung for dear life. Her vantage point of the city became ever the more spectacular with every foot, and she found herself forgetting the phone call entirely.

Maybe, _just maybe_, Smokescreen wasn't a total dick after all.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** There is Chapter 13, lucky 13! Okay, maybe not. Anyways, it's a bit longer if you'll notice. I'm trying to aim for longer and still keep good updates until I move.

Also, here's something else for you guys! Smokescreen and Claire, just a quick drawing from a scene in an upcoming chapter. Guess that lets the secret out, too. I'm Quietharm, and I have another account on called Quietharm too. Dang.

You can click on my homepage link in my author profile and go to the picture there, as posting the link here screws up the formatting.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

**The Human Stain: Chapter 14**

_Well you filled up my head  
With so many lies,  
Twisted my heart  
'Till something snapped inside  
I'd like to give it one more try  
But my give a damn's busted_

_You can crawl back home  
Say you were wrong  
Stand out in the yard  
And cry all night long  
Go ahead and water the lawn  
My give a damn's busted_

_**-Jo Dee Messina, My Give A Damn's Busted**_

* * *

_**The White House, Washington D.C.**_

* * *

General Richardson entered the Oval Office.

It had taken quite longer than expected to acquire the necessary clearance into the president's formal workspace. He had been summoned, but naturally even direct orders from the President of the United States experienced a ridiculous delay in time due to tightened security measures.

The aging general was ushered inside the dimly lit chamber without much fanfare. The three ceiling-to-floor windows behind the president's engraved desk had the thick velveteen curtains drawn so that only the most minimal amount of daylight slipped in. The man's polished leather shoes sank into the plush blue rug that carpeted most of the room. The floor was truly expensive hardwood, but the rug hid everything save for the edges along the walls. Within the center of the floor covering was a large emblem of a bald eagle encircled by fifty stars and a red outer ring.

It was none other than a replica of the Seal of the United States.

In its left talon, the eagle clutched thirteen arrows – these represented the thirteen original states. In its left, there was an olive branch. The olive branch had exactly thirteen leaves and stood for a representation of peace.

There would be no such thing – not anymore.

"Sir, I came as quickly as I could." Richardson put himself just before the symbol on the floor, almost reverently. He could never bring himself to step on it.

The man in the brown leather seat was facing away from the general, so only the top mop of his graying hair was visible over the edge of his chair. Slowly, he turned. The room was poorly lit, which effectively cast the president's face into long shadows. There was an awkward silence, and then the leader of his country stood.

"General," he acknowledged. The shadows shifted, and the president's lips tipped upward. "…So nice to see you."

"Sir, there is much I need to tell you about the _Orbiter 2_," General Richardson gushed, uncomprehending of his superior's smirk.

"Oh, I know everything." The president was a smaller man than his visitor, but there was a fluid, catlike grace as he wound his way from behind his desk.

"You were briefed on it already, then?" he asked hopefully. This would save them more time, if it were true. Time was one thing they did not have enough of. A quiet rustle of fabric to the left alerted the general to the presence of an audience in the room. He shouldn't be surprised, really. A Secret Serviceman stood unobtrusively in a darkened corner, and by glancing to the right the general could confirm the existence of another. They stood tall with their hands folded neatly in front of their tailored black suits. They appeared non-threatening, but he knew better. They were the best the country had, and when it came to them – well, looks were always deceiving.

Oddly, they wore shades despite the dark conditions. The mustached man considered this unnecessary, but he was not one to question the president's personal entourage.

"You could say I was… 'briefed'." The man across from General Richardson crept closer with a predatory nature. The general could not discern exactly why the president was acting so strangely. If it was a joke, it was a severely sadistic one. Now was not the time to play pranks. It did not look good for the United States if its leader was attempting humor in the most dire of situations.

"Sir…" he tried again.

The president paused, and lightly touched a few fingertips to the polished surface of his executive desk. His hand came up again to press both digits to his lips. His mouth grew larger behind the fingers, but his eyes were cold.

"You will do whatever you can to help us with our situation, would you not?"

The general breathed a sigh of relief he had not known he had been holding. Finally, they were getting down to business. "Yes, Sir. I will serve you in whatever capacity you need."

"Good," said the man beside the desk. Without warning, he spat on the emblem at his vistor's feet and spun on his heel. "Then it begins."

"Sir, I do not understand…!" General Richardson began, but it was far too late for that.

"Fill him in."

The corners moved, and the president's personal security detail detached themselves from the penumbras. They slid silently across the room, heading towards the solitary man standing humbly before the Seal of the United States.

* * *

**_Tranquility, Nevada_**

* * *

"You _wouldn't_."

"I would."

"Wouldn't!"

"Would." Claire gave a sage nod.

Smokescreen looked beside himself. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and they had been bickering back and forth like petulant adolescents over Claire's insistence they return for her Eclipse. The Autobot had staunchly refused to grant her one wish, which only led to more clamor from her end. Finally, hands tied, the human woman whipped out the big guns.

"So help me god, I will buy a soda," she had declared.

It led up to their present 'conversation', which the robot was rapidly losing. He told her it would break the truce, and that she shouldn't go back on her word and _blah, blah, blah_. Honestly, she had no intention of breaking the contract – she was smarter than that. Claire was merely betting on the Autobot believing that she would stoop so low, which turned out to be the case. She felt somewhat offended that he thought so low of her scruples, but hey – this was for her benefit. Beggars could not be choosers.

He had a poor image of humans in general, or at least she speculated so, and therefore he would _have_ to believe that she would break the truce if she didn't get her car back. He never gave any good reason on why they had to stay, either. Boulder City was only about an hour or so away at most, what would be the problem?

He had resisted for as long as possible, but eventually she won out on her threat. There was one dubious part of her mind that questioned whether she had really cowed him or not – after all, he was a twenty foot tall robot with laser cannons and shape shifting abilities. If he did not want to be around when she held up a can of soda, he wouldn't be. This only led to the inevitable conclusion that he had humored her all the while because he _enjoyed_ arguing with her. The very idea that he could be that twisted – to get his jollies off seeing her pissed off - she didn't like the thought at all. It was downright _wrong_.

She had stuffed the theory under some dusty files in the back chamber of her brain, forbidding herself from ever entertaining it again. Sullen, Claire rode with Miguel in Smokescreen on the way back to the motel from the lookout. They dropped Miguel off for another night, and Claire promised to be back within a few hours. From there they drove in a southerly direction, headed for Boulder City and the Boyd garage. The entire ride was met with silence, something Claire had perfected in the short time she had known Smokescreen. He did not try to initiate conversation with her, seemingly preferring the silence to anything else.

By the time they had rolled up to the Boyd garage, Claire could clearly see her 2004 Eclipse parked out front. She wanted to laugh, cry, or do a dance for joy – she thought she would never be that happy again to see a normal car that was _just_ a car. Mick Boyd had already left for the day, and she had to accept her keys from John. Mick's oldest son never spoke much beyond the necessary anyways, so it was a relief to leave the garage behind with nothing but a glare. She still mourned the fact that she had put the Boyds through hell and risked their livelihood by entangling them with her problems, but that was the reality of it. Claire would have done anything to go back and time and make amends, but some things couldn't be fixed.

Time was one of them.

* * *

The doorbell rang.

Claire threw a long look out in the direction of the sound. Who could that be?

They had made a pit stop – pun intended – back at Claire's house so she could gather a few more personal possessions. Smokescreen had driven off, citing something about inspecting the nearby area. He had parked in the driveway while she had gone through her entire house, checking for intruders. The Autobot had told her to scream if she needed help, and she told him she would be all too happy to oblige. When all seemed inconsequential, he pulled out of the driveway and began to scope the neighborhood out.

Now that he was gone, Claire made her way to the front of the house and paused. Did she really want to open the door? Smokescreen was no doubt nearby, policing the streets in his own way. Besides, it wasn't typical for a killer to politely ring the doorbell – they generally preferred the element of surprise. Shrugging, the blonde swung the door open and was promptly presented with the visitor on the other side.

Simon.

He hadn't changed much in the years they had been apart, honestly. There was nothing about his appearance that threw her off guard, save for the tiny fact that he was, oh, well, hm, _there._ She stared at him like a slack-jawed yokel, eyes wide and disbelieving. His brown eyes collided with her own, leaving her to blink rapidly at his hard stare. They stood three feet apart, but it might as well have been three thousand miles. She had never hoped to see his face again, but the stark reality of his countenance before her converged with her memories and made the divorce seem like only yesterday.

"Claire," he said. His voice was warm. He smiled brightly at her, and then took a step forward.

Immediately, she took a step back. Her eyes were liquid and her mouth was partially agape in shock. "Simon… what are you _doing_ here? How did you find out where I lived…?"

Another step. "I had a private investigator look into it. I hope you don't mind." His smile was unwavering, perfectly placed like his gaze on her face.

"Simon…" she warned, stumbling back further. This was not like him – well, yes, in a way it was – he had always been determined and domineering, just never towards her. His goals seemed misplaced.

"I decided to take the day off. I hopped on the first flight out of California and rented a car. I got here as soon as I could." He hesitated, the first crack in his aggressive posture, and then returned full bore, "I realized after all these years I was wrong. I have returned to bring you back. I can't live without you, Claire."

Simon never admitted to being wrong…

She didn't have much time left to analyze the discrepancies that the scenario presented, because in the next moment he was on her. He pushed her back into the wall behind her and closed the front door in one fluid motion. The barrier slammed hard enough to rattle the walls, hinting at strength she had not known Simon to possess. He pinned her to the spot with both body and gaze, and she stared wide-eyed into his eyes from inches away. They were still the brown ochre tones she recognized, but something was, well, _off_. His irises were brighter, more ruddy then she remembered, almost as if lit from behind.

Those eyes _burned _with their intense regard. Simon had given her more than enough glares in his day, but it was never with such fiery scrutiny. Something about the demonic light in his eyes seemed beyond mere human capability.

"Si--" she tried again, but was effectively quieted. His mouth descended on hers, hot and heavy. There was possessiveness to the forced contact, and his lips were brutal.

For a lost second or two, she was brain dead. Simon was there with _her_, not Jen, kissing her with more desire than she had ever witnessed in all the accumulated time they had been together. Her eyes threatened to flutter shut, to give in to the familiar but unfamiliar course of actions when her mind kick-started itself again.

_Wait._

_Jen._

Indignation and rage rose up in her gut, as well as disgust. It wasn't towards Simon specifically, but more towards herself for nearly giving in. Claire's head snapped back so fast that a sharp crack emanated from the spot where the back of her skull hit the wall behind her. It hurt instantly, creating wildfires on her nerve endings. Despite this, the pain was ignored. Claire brought her good knee up at exactly the same time, lodging the cap right into Simon's groin. "_**Bastard**_," she hissed between clenched teeth. "Who the hell do you think you are, marching in here and acting however you damn well please with me?!"

Simon flinched visibly and reversed both from the pain she inflicted and the press of her palms against his shoulders. He did not curl into a fetal position as most men would have, however, which made it all the more impressive to watch him stand there, almost completely unaffected after a matter of seconds. The man's face schooled itself into careful lines, watching her warily.

She stared back in much the same manner, save for the feral scowl darkening her face. "You have some fucking nerve to stalk me. People are looking for you back home. Jen is looking for you."

"What about her?" His question was calm and collected, and he straightened further. His shoulders rolled several times, and Claire swore she could hear a creaking noise.

"She called earlier today and told me what you never had the balls to." The fury in Claire's voice was scalding.

Simon merely looked bored. "I told you, I want you. I do not care about her."

"Oh, is that it? You're dropping her like a load of bricks after a few years, too? You saved my life, Simon, and I'll never forget that. But, unfortunately, I think you need to leave." Claire skirted around his person, and reopened the door. "Go back to Atherton, while you still have people who are worried for you there. I know I'm not."

"I told you, I want you." He was relentless.

"…And I'm telling you, I want you gone," she countered snippily. "I won't tell Jen you just pulled this stunt on me if you leave right now. I have enough problems without adding this crap into the mix. You made your choice a long time ago… now be an adult and stick to it."

"Be rational, Claire. You like living like…" he arced his hand over his head to illustrate his point, "_…this?_"

Oh, hell no. Estranged ex-husband or not, he was not going to stand there and give her a lecture about the small scale of her home. She bought it herself and was struggling to make ends meet to keep it, but to have him show up and begin to compare her old home in Atherton to the one she currently owned was out of the question. He was either very brave, or very stupid.

She was leaning towards the latter.

"**OUT**," she commanded, jabbing her index finger towards the door behind him. With the door out of the way, she could see the vehicle he had arrived in. She expected a rented Lexus or BMW, not the empty squad car parked in the driveway behind her Eclipse. Her hand dropped to her side, and she tipped her head to the side. Her anger subsided, replaced by rampant confusion. "Simon… did you come here in a cop car?"

Claire's ex-husband glanced over his shoulder at the vehicle in question, and a wry smirk tipped one corner of his mouth upward. "Let's just say a friend gave me a ride."

"Simon," she said. Her tone was calm, but not the typical type of calm – there was a psychotic pause to it, the kind that let the one listening know that the speaker was about to scream. "You said you rented a car. You cannot rent a cop car."

"Oh, did I?" The businessman seemed pleasantly surprised by her prior observation. "I apologize, I usually rent them. Slip of the tongue." He licked his lips, and she looked away.

Claire took a deep breath. "Who is your friend? I didn't know you knew any police officers in the area." She modified her word usage, carefully dropping 'cop' from her vocabulary in case they were being overheard. Suspicious now, Claire stepped around Simon and went outside. She turned a sharp left to look down the front face of the garage, but no one was in sight. Her nerves were beginning to fry, and an uneasy feeling roiled in her gut. "Seriously, where did you get this thing…"

Strong arms seized her from behind, pinning both of her own arms to her sides. Claire froze up for a second, too shocked to move. When she realized she was being propelled forward by Simon's bulk from behind, she began to fight. "This could have been easy, dear, but we'll just have to do it the hard way." Simon's voice was a mocking growl, something she had never heard from him in all the time they had been together.

Not only that, but the inconsistencies seemed suddenly very clear at the moment – Simon never called her 'dear', either. The realization of her predicament began to settle in like a cold snow upon her mind, and she fought all the harder. Twisting and turning, she began to shriek for help for all she was worth. It wasn't very brave and it wasn't very pretty, but time was of the essence and she was no hero.

Simon's imposter grunted with the effort to keep her subdued. He was far stronger than she, but she still bucked against him and attempted to lodge an elbow into his lower abdomen whenever the chance presented itself. The pair made a jerking, graceless path towards the squad car.

Claire momentarily stopped struggling when she saw it fire up on its own. Her eyes widened, and her cries for help became more insistent. "_**SHIT, HELP, ****HELP!!**_" If there was a god, then Smokescreen would hear her.

No one came.

The Trans-Organic finally managed to keep her pinned with one arm just under her chest. The other came around to wrench her wayward elbow back into a painful hold, nearly twisting her arm to the point of breaking. She gave a pained yelp, and then hissed with a quick intake of air.

"Be a little quieter, hm? We wouldn't want you losing another limb."

"_Fucker_," she swore. Red pinwheels of pain dotted her vision. They were parallel to the squad car, and one of the backseat doors swung open. There was a metal grate separating the front from the back of the car, which was a feature in all police cruisers. It was meant to keep the suspect contained – which meant they were going to lock her up in a backseat birdcage.

The thing behind her wearing Simon's face shoved her through the open gap and towards the dark cab. "Get in, gutsack." He tried to shove her again, but was having some difficulty in manipulating her position so that she would go in.

It was slowly sinking in that this was going to happen, and there was nothing she could do about it. Claire was absolutely helpless. She was just some woman in her mid-twenties that worked at a department store to get by. There was nothing special about her, nothing unique, and the world would not mourn her passing. Those thoughts sobered her, and she bowed her head to accept her fate like a cow being led to the slaughter.

Still, if she was so ordinary, why was everyone and their uncle out to get her? It didn't add up. She suddenly thought of Smokescreen just then, and she briefly mused over the idea that he might miss her. Maybe, if they were capable of that emotion. If anyone was going to help her, it had to be herself.

"Hey, hey, slow down. I'll go easy. Just let up a little. It hurts," Claire said as calmly as possible.

The Trans-Organic sneered, and she could feel his breath stirring the wisps of hair curling around the shell of her ear. _He has lungs..?_ A crazy idea formed in her head.

"What are you proposing?" he asked.

"Just relax your hold and I'll get in the…" she paused, quite aware the police cruiser was not really as it seemed. _Hell, nothing is these days_. Swallowing nervously, she finished her sentence. "…car."

He raised her arm another agonizing millimeter, twisted as it was up and against her back. She squeaked, and tears sprung to her eyes as a new wave of pain hit her senses. If he went any increment higher he would snap the bone for sure. She had to calm herself and think fast.

"Please, just… I'll go nicely. Just don't break my arm," she pleaded, attempting to sound as helpless as possible. It came quite naturally, really, given the circumstances. She didn't expect him to comply – but he did.

The hybrid's grip eased, and a dull ache roared up her arm and into her brain. It was much better than the edge-of-the-knife feeling from moments before, but it still hurt.

Ignoring it, she did what she had briefly rehearsed in her head. It seemed like a good idea in theory, but it ended up being a very bad one in practice. With her left arm still smarting, Claire spun on her heel and used her right hand to sock him squarely in the midsection. His breath left him, just as she thought it would – if he was capable of respiration, that part of him had human lungs. The impact from her blow knocked him over, and he tottered with the force of it while coughing and holding his sides. Around that same instant, the squad car began to reformat itself into _something else_.

She was running, bolting from the spot. Her arm screamed at her, and she vaguely noticed the detached feeling emanating from it. Claire tailed it down the street while metric tons of metal bore down on her from behind. She could feel it rattling the asphalt, sending small fissures to race ahead of her. _Shitshitshit._

Claire glanced over her shoulder to see her pursuer, and she suddenly wished she hadn't. It roared, and she threw everything she had into propelling herself forward.

It was a gargantuan entity with police logos emblazoned on its plating. She recognized it as a Decepticon, but dear lord – she wasn't one to call the Autobots approachable, but this thing made them look like fuzzy Easter chicks.

The world seemed to fade into slow motion, and Claire recognized the sensation as a response to panic and shock. She jerked her head side-to-side as she ran, attempting to keep herself aware. It was nearly upon her, and her small form could only run so far and so fast. It was much taller than she, and therefore had the advantage of catching up in a few more strides. Something slammed into the cement sidewalk just a foot or two away to her right, and she realized it was its fist.

The world exploded. She was suddenly airborne as the ground heaved upwards, sending her and a few parked cars rolling. The sound of crunching metal filled the air, and Claire dimly recognized that she was in dire danger of being crushed by a spinning vehicle. If there was by chance miraculous intervention, then she must have had it. Her body narrowly missed a van that collided with the ground topside down. A shower of sparks rained over her skin, and she felt their fiery pricks just as she too met with the pavement.

Hurdling towards black top at a rapid speed should have hurt a lot more than she expected it to. The wind was knocked from her body, much like she had done to Simon's killer. For the few first seconds, she skidded along like a crazy child on a slip-'n-slide made of gravel. She felt boneless, helpless to control her direction. The friction between her exposed skin and the ground burned with heat as it ripped away the first or second layer of epidermis. Darkness swirled just below her consciousness, and Claire struggled to stay awake.

She felt pain rip through her, and for a moment she thought she was dying. Then, strangely, the sensation subsided to a tolerable level. A new rush of adrenaline swept through her nervous system, and she mentally thanked her adrenal glands.

Slowly, Claire raised herself enough so that she could crawl. Every movement was pure, ripping agony. It was much better than the alternative, however. Pain was a nuisance, yes, but it let her know that she was still alive. Her head lolled around, and she blinked rapidly to focus on the danger behind her. Her vision was spotty, and her focus fluctuated in and out. The last, reaching rays of the sun were suddenly blocked as a mammoth form rose over her smaller one. Her personal reaper was dark and sleek, and it had come to deliver her to the next dimension.

Claire read, _'to punish and enslave…'_ on the Decepticon's shoulder, which had really been on the squad car along. It was ridiculous to read it now and wonder why she hadn't seen it before, but it was a fitting line for her end. Slowly, she rotated at the pelvis and swung herself around. Something wet ran down her lower lip, but she was too engrossed at the vision of the towering Decepticon to notice she was bleeding.

The former squad car leered closer, balling one of his fists together. He had long, pincher-like digits with a car tire just behind them on the back of each 'hand'. His face was distantly recognizable as somewhat human in form, with large plates that served as eyebrows dipping low over small eye sockets. Like the Autobots, his chest was composed of the grill of the squad car. He had blunt feet that did not match his metal talons, but it did not matter. Both were terrifying.

The Decepticon raised his clenched fist far over Claire's head, apparently readying himself to crush the human below like the insect she was sure she appeared to be.

With her heart thundering in her chest, the young woman scrunched her eyes together and waited for the crushing force that would turn her into quivering blob of flesh and organs. Her mind helpfully flashed back to the image of the flattened Trans-Organic, and she accepted that she would look the same minus the metal.

Claire waited.

Nothing.

Sirens wailed in the distance, meaning someone had either heard her screaming in the driveway or saw a giant metal robot storming down the street – either would do it. She didn't have long to question the source of the sirens, however. Something else blotted out the sun, leaping at her impending doom and taking him down with it. There was a dizzying snowball of metal that rolled sideways off the street and into a neighbor's house. It drove a wedge straight through the middle of the dwelling, and then the two burst apart and finished off the remainder of the structure. More cars were demolished in the ensuing chaos, and car alarms blared as if competing with the growing scream of sirens.

Claire could not tear her eyes away from the two robots. Her savior was none other than Smokescreen, and just in time. A second later would have been too late. _Where were you?! _her mind cried.

Wiping the back of her hand over her lower lip subconsciously, Claire did not even look down when she came away with a streak of red. It smeared her face like war paint, the consequence of razing herself against asphalt.

Meanwhile, the shit had hit the fan.

A helicopter buzzed low overhead, sweeping the mangled hair from her face. A small fear began to grow in her, and she found she was no longer taking automobiles or any machine at face value anymore. It nagged on her now, even. How did she know the helicopter or the police she heard were not more aliens coming to aide the Decepticon? Why was she not surprised that she was even questioning it?

Claire winced as the wind burned her face, but otherwise continued to watch the two giants engage in battle._ I hope no one was in that house…_

Frankly, there wasn't a house left. There was a pit filled with debris that had once been a basement, but that was all. The two mechanoids were circling one another, hunched over like wrestlers in a ring. Smokescreen's cannons were out and above his shoulder blades, rotating fractionally for every step the large Decepticon took sideways.

Warring emotions filled her – anguish at the knowledge that Simon was most likely dead, fear for Smokescreen (she didn't want to admit to this one), and fear for her own well being. Simon's clone was still around, and she would - no, _could_ not let herself forget that.

They were going to fight, and Claire didn't want to be underfoot in the vicinity when that happened. She rolled back over and began to crawl away as fast as her protesting limbs would allow. While doing this, she glanced up. The wind generated by the helicopter came in waves like the surf on an ocean. It cleared the dust from the air, just enough for her to make out the local television station's logo on the helicopter's side.

_Lights, camera, action! You're on_, she thought grimly. If the world doubted the existence of giant robots before, they were in for a rude awakening.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** Hey guys, thank you SO much for all the reviews for the last chapter. Actually, I think I got more reviews last chapter than I have for any chapter, so you guys are awesome! I love getting reviews, but eh… who doesn't? ; ) It's getting to the point where there are too many reviews to respond to everyone in this chapter without making the A/N needlessly long, so I'll just reply to you through if you review from now on.

**Oh, and I know you guys will like this:** I am making character profiles for as many of the characters as I can. Go to my Author profile page and click on the 'Homepage' link. So far I have Claire and Miguel's portrait up. Smokescreen's hologram form is next, followed by Simon. I'm doing cel-shading now for a hard anime look instead of the soft shading like that first picture had. ) Hope you like it!

I'll be out until the 14th or a little longer since I am moving to Nebraska (CRAZY) and it'll get busy for me. I should have Smoke out for you by this weekend.

* * *


	15. Chapter 15

**The Human Stain: Chapter 15**

_We've been searching all night long  
But there's no trace to be found  
It's like they all have just vanished  
But I know they're around_

_I feel them getting closer  
Their howls are sending chills down my spine  
And time is running out now  
They're coming down the hills from behind_

_**-Within Temptation, The Howling**_

* * *

Claire crouched low behind an upturned van, peering over one end to lay her eyes on the two large figures dominating the terrain.

For a moment she could not identify a sudden ache that welled up in her chest, but after a second of puzzlement she realized what it was.

Claire felt helpless. She _wanted_ to help Smokescreen, she _wanted_ to do something, but she was just an insect in comparison. If she suddenly had three wishes from a genie's magic lamp, she knew exactly what she would wish for. She would sprout fifteen extra feet, gain invincibility, and have the power to shoot deadly laser beams from her eye sockets.

But, alas. She was only a mere human. Frankly, it sucked. Her eyes strayed from a strict scrutiny of Smokescreen to a more fearful one of his opponent.

Okay, maybe she'd better recant on those wishes after all. She wouldn't have the guts to get that close to something like that in a million years, even if she did have magical abilities. You could empower the human, but you couldn't take away a human's natural fear of something they did not understand. It just didn't work that way.

So, here she was, back to square one when all things were said and done. There was a thrum of modulation along the airwaves that suppressed even the irritating drone of the helicopter. It appeared that the two Cybertronians were communicating loudly with one another, but she couldn't be sure. She heard Smokescreen's distinct voice, but it... it was _altered_. It sounded somewhat like the discombobulated mishmash of tones and voices you would hear by turning a radio dial too quickly when scanning through stations in a car. It was high, it was low, and it was everything in-between in quick succession. The Decepticon responded in kind, operating on a much deeper garble than Smokescreen.

It was almost like they were goading one another.

They were speaking in another tongue, another language. No, not just any language – it was _their_ language. Claire was broad sided by this knowledge, but then she was just as surprised by her own shock. They were from another world – why wouldn't they have their own language? Why did she not consider this before? The answer came to her quickly, just as she expected it to. She felt somewhat ashamed, but it was true – she needed to start thinking about perspectives other than her own. She had been doing too much self-pitying lately, and it had confined her to her own narrow perception.

Deep down she felt a curl of exhilaration drift up, like smoke, and she thought, very quietly, that if she had never lost her leg so many years ago she would not have known Smokescreen, would not have reached this inward revelation, would not have realized how much more there was to life had she not almost lost it all and gained it back again.

And, all things considered, she would not have appreciated it as much. She would not be here now, behind a tipped vehicle, watching live what most regular people would never see in their lifetimes. The very fact that she was still in place said something greater than any dream ever could.

She would not have, at this moment, found herself with the strength of resolve to stay had it not been for everything else. For Smokescreen, for _all of it_.

Claire would have mused over it more, had the Decepticon not made the first charge. If she had been paying attention, she would have noticed the sounds the robots emitted had quieted, settling to a grave silence before the eve of action.

Just as his dark foe launched himself forward, Smokescreen darted sideways. The strides that both took were so long that they stepped on several other homes around the one they had already destroyed. People ran out of one, screaming. There were children there, too – little dots crying and sobbing as they were pulled along by the guidance of their parents' insistent hands.

_Shit_. This couldn't happen _here_, not now. Smokescreen seemed to recognize this, or at least she hoped he had. He was veering away, over a drainage ditch and into a fenced area inhabited by the high voltage power lines that supplied electricity to the neighborhood. Three homes now lay in collapse in the wake of their movements, and it was only the beginning. Silently, Claire prayed that no one was dead.

The Decepticon sprang again, and she marveled at their speed despite their immense size. Smokescreen immediately reacted, or rather his shoulder cannons did – one swiveled to target the enemy, the second followed suit, and then both fired. It wasn't a missile or a bullet of any recognizable kind that Claire could identify. It was a white spray of sparks that entangled the air immediately around the Decepticon. They flared and faded like distant stars, perfectly spaced to form what appeared to be a net. Smokescreen's opponent was temporarily taken off guard by this, and stilled – he seemed dazed, of all things.

Smokescreen spoke again in his alien tongue, his intonations high and fast. It might have been words of triumph, or a perhaps he was mocking the Decepticon. She couldn't understand any of it, but knowing Smokescreen… he was probably engaging in the latter.

She was following them slowly, suicidal though it may be. She wound her way around large objects, keeping a relatively safe distance. It was all she could do to support Smokescreen, really. She didn't want to admit it, but she worried for him. It bothered her on too many levels that she was more concerned for his well being than that of the people running for safety, but that was the truth of it.

The metal bird above her followed, mutually interested in the outcome. She wished she could shoo it away, wave it off, but there would be no such luck. The police were all around by then – they were out of their vehicles (real police and real cars, thankfully), herding throngs of curious onlookers away from the epic scene. The other portion of the police force was poised at the ready on their knees, automatic assault rifles aimed at the two combatants. Claire wasn't sure the tiny weapons would do much good, but she could let them hope. She kept out of their way and notice by edging along the sides of cars and homes, keeping low to the ground.

The shriek of a broken sound barrier temporarily interrupted her advancement, and she hazarded another look skywards.

_W… Tee… Eff…_ her mind railed.

It shot down from the heavens like a silver bullet, headed straight for the hovering helicopter. Gunfire erupted from its wings, blazing in orange bursts.

The helicopter promptly exploded.

Fiberglass chunks rained down upon the earth, slapping the neighborhood heavily with debris. A metal blade from the tail rotor narrowly missed slicing her in two – if she hadn't been watching the event in disbelief, she wouldn't have had the foresight to dive beneath someone's deck. Her palms bit the dirt below her aching body, and she bit her lip hard in the process. Flinching at the self-inflicted pain, she peered out at the new threat.

The bevy of law enforcement officials stationed on the ground instantly fired upon the quick aircraft. A military jet, of all things, had just shot down a civilian helicopter. It raced through the air again, taking another downward swipe towards Smokescreen and the Decepticon. Its guns opened up again, and Claire knew it was not _just _a jet.

Smokescreen was getting into more trouble than he could handle. The Decepticon had regained his bearings and the electric net had disappeared. He advanced menacingly on Smokescreen while the Autobot was being pummeled by air. Claire's eyes widened to the point of popping free of her skull, and then she raced from beneath the deck.

"_No, no, no, no,_" she repeated rapidly as she ran.

Claire didn't know what she was doing, or how she was going to go about doing it – all she could think about was how she _had_ to help Smokescreen.

"Going somewhere, _dear?_" The mocking words punched a hole straight through her frantic thought processes, stopping them cold. An arm snaked out, manacling her by the midsection and swinging her around like it was connected to a dance partner. She spun, lost her balance, and fell heavily on her hip. Groaning, Claire attempted to regain her bearings when a familiar shape loomed over her prone form.

The thing that killed Simon grinned manically. He unfurled one of his arms like a ringmaster unveiling the wonders of his carnival acts and held it in the direction of the battling robots. "The _fools!_ It is all working as it should!"

"_What?!_" Claire murmured from the ground, holding her head. It still hurt. She lifted her eyes to Simon's face, but did not recognize it.

The Trans-Organic's rabid excitement was showing through the mask he wore, twisting Simon's features into a wild expression. It was the face of a psychotic inventor, a crazy doctor. No sane person could attain such a visage without the fanatical enthusiasm behind it. "It's amazing how these things play out, is it not? Just wondrous!" The Trans-Organic ran a trembling hand through Simon's dark hair, his awed face turned towards the battle.

Claire had no idea what he was rambling about, but she didn't take chances. She lifted her leg, the prosthetic one, and jammed it back behind the hybrid's knees. He went down fast as he lost the locked support his lower joints supplied him, and Claire scrambled to her feet and took off running again.

Mocking laughter filled the air behind her, and Claire dove around charred helicopter fragments as her legs bore her through the drainage ditch. Wastewater slowed her movements, slogging her legs in a filthy mixture of liquid. She was already dirty, burned, skinned, and who knew what else – this was nothing. The human woman waded through the mess until she ascended the opposite bank, climbing the rise that led to the line of tall power lines. A heavy reverberation shook the ground like an earthquake, and it took her a second to realize one of the titans had fallen.

Predictably, it was Smokescreen. Claire's heart hitched painfully. She drove herself towards him, acting beyond all reason. Her brain was screaming for her to turn around, to shift directions, but she would not listen. She would likely die for this, but her arms would not stop pumping, her legs would not stop cycling, and she could not reverse her trajectory.

Smokescreen was laying half askew against the skeletal tower of a crumpled power line. The steel structure had impacted part of his fall, and a smoking crater had formed over one of the headlights on his upper chest. The ground around her started shaking again, indicating the footfalls of a giant behind her. She had been spotted.

Falling to all fours, Claire scrabbled around Smokescreen's left foot until she was next to his lifeless right hand. "_Smokescreen…_" she whispered hoarsely, wondering if he could hear her from so high up. Her body tilted and she turned herself to face her pursuer.

It was the dark Decepticon.

A blast of hot wind blew her bangs out of her face, cooling the perspiration that had collected on her forehead. The jet now plummeted towards them, stealing the breath from her lungs as it transformed just before it made landfall. Claire bowed her head as a plume of smoke and sand blasted her point-blank from the jet's sudden landing.

The woman's heart thrummed erratically in her ears as the second Decepticon appeared before the first. One small hand, the one closest to Smokescreen, absently began groping the ground beside it as Claire sought the reassuring metal plane of his nearest finger. The press of her yielding palm against the hard metal surface of his small digit did nothing to quell her fear. The two Decepticons advanced, tangling the sound waves with their unintelligible electronic modulations. Claire stole one last glance up at Smokescreen, willing the dust to clear so she could see his face. If she were to die – and it seemed inevitable – she at least wanted him to see she came. She wasn't sure why it mattered, but somehow it _did_ – at least to her.

Smokescreen's blue eyes were not lit. Was he out? Unconscious? His face was slack, unmoving and unresponsive. A mechanical whine stole her focus from him, and two gray eyes widened with the realization that the flying Decepticon had transformed one of his arms into a missile launcher trained specifically on her. The small geometric plates composing the Decepticon's metal face moved downwards, effectively creating a dark smile of satisfaction. As a whole, this new Decepticon carried a keen physical resemblance to a wasp – he was all sharp angles and carried plenty of stingers.

She licked her lips, grimacing at the gritty slide of sand granules against her tongue. She tasted salt. Had she been crying? Her eyes were definitely wet, but that was only because of all the dust in the air – had to be.

"Foul thing," the hornet-like robot said in English. His voice had a rough, sandpapery grain to it. His weaponry lit up, and Claire braced herself –

- but the hand beneath hers moved, grasped her around the waist –

- she was tossed, airborne –

- and landed several feet away, sliding along the gravel like a loose rock. Her chin struck the ground hard on landing, and pain lanced through her brain. Behind her, the ground exploded into shards of earth and a bright bloom of light surrounded her vision. She felt searing heat, and pressed herself to lie as flatly as possible.

If they made it out of this alive (and that was a very big _IF_), the very next thing she was going to do was draft an 'Autobot Sympathizer Bill of Rights' and make sure Smokescreen was the first to sign it. Rule number one on said list would be the right to be handled in a respected, safe way - no more of this rag doll crap. She was being thrown left and right like some negligent child's plaything, and it was _really_ starting to get old.

She was sure she could keep adding new rights in the future – the need for them cropped up more often than not. People would thank her left and right for pioneering such an ingenious idea. In fact, she was surprised she didn't think of it before.

Then again, being at death's door one too many times had the power to give people some pretty uncommon insight.

A snort of derision cleared her of her sudden inspiration, and she wearily lifted her head to stare over her shoulder. Claire's eyes widened.

The Trans-Organic was there, staring down at her with Simon's hard brown eyes. Smokescreen was no longer down – he was on his feet and locked in struggle against the dark Decepticon. The flying robot stood between them both, his focus going wild in a vain attempt to lock down on Smokescreen without taking out his peer in the process. Their odd language filled the air again, loud and insistent. The lighter Decepticon that had fired on her must of thought her dealt with, because he did not look her way nor acknowledge the Trans-Organic next to her.

The creature with Simon's face stood over her like a vengeful god. He bent at the waist, encircling her closest forearm with his hand. He wrenched her painfully to her feet, and she met his glare with her own. A whirring sound dropped her eyes to his arm. His hand had transformed into that taloned claw she had seen on her own clone – and as if to prove to her the danger, he held it to her throat. The sharp blades traced the thin skin beneath her jaw line, and she swallowed delicately against the points.

"Watch," he rasped in her ear. "They will eradicate one another without any work from our end."

Claire kept her head tilted up, attempting to ignore the fact that her pulse was at blade point. Any sudden move from her would bring his metal claws right into her throat, ending her life in an instant. She drew herself up as regally as possible despite her broken state. "Why?" Her voice was strangled and she frowned at the reedy pitch. The question was simple, true, but it was enough to hopefully buy time.

"Why?" he mimicked. The Trans-Organic barked out an acidic laugh as if it were the dumbest thing he had ever been asked. "Why, indeed?"

She wasn't going to play mind games with him. Smokescreen had managed to overpower Barricade, and the two were tumbling like wrestlers along the ground. The power line towers were in a complete state of disarray – some were felled completely, some were only halfway standing, and others had yet to succumb. Live electrical wires hissed and showered sparks everywhere, giving Claire an idea.

Stall, she needed to stall. The jet Decepticon was growing ever more frustrated, evidenced by the warning shots he fired over both interlocked robots. He was on the verge of shooting them both if something did not happen in the next few moments.

Worse yet, it was all up to her, the human. She was the weakest creature there, and if anything was going to save Smokescreen and herself… well, it had to be her.

She gave a cautionary wriggle, only to be awarded with the press of hot pricks against her throat. "I do not think you would be so stupid to try something else," the Trans-Organic reminded her matter-of-factly. The hand banded around her forearm tightened, and he pushed her towards the Decepticons – and inadvertently towards one of the sizzling live wires. Black smoke was rising from the contact between the ground and wire, creating a blinding white light with a blue corona at the top.

_Yes…_

"What are you planning?" she asked, hopefully turning the Trans-Organic's attention back on his cryptic remarks.

"Too many questions… you ask too many questions. I would stop." He played his metallic claw along her skin, tapping her jugular mindfully. "We wouldn't want you to lose your ability to speak, would we?"

She swallowed the urge to curse him – literally choked off the word.

He drove her forward and she did not resist. Her eyes continually flickered between the Cybertronians and the hissing cable nearby. Her captor spoke without moving his lips from behind her, issuing forth the strange inflections of the aliens by way of some robotic voice box. If her life were not in peril, Claire would be marveling over the fact that the hybrid was able to not only speak through a human esophagus, but through a computer as well. They kept proving to be more and more a melding of human and machine.

Twin flares of temporary blue light from the propulsion jets of the waspish Decepticon made an arrant display of frustration as he turned to glance down at the Trans-Organic behind him. The two exchanged heated words in the Cybertronian language. The fully robotic Decepticon narrowed his red optics at the woman the Trans-Organic held before returning the glare to his equally small comrade. There seemed to be no love lost between them.

In the meantime, the squad car Decepticon locked in physical combat against Smokescreen was proving to be the stronger of the two robots. He shoved Smokescreen back once more, raised a spinning disc connected to one arm over the other mechanoid's head, and the two lost balance and were propelled backwards.

Claire noted the proximity of the wire, and that was when she made her move.

Using the Trans-Organic's terse distraction with the flying Decepticon to her advantage, Claire shifted the entirety of her weight sideways and back. The Trans-Organic instantly brought his razor-sharp points up into her throat, but she was past the point of caring. They pierced her skin as they both went down from the loss of balance, and her eyes saw red.

Smokescreen toppled with the dark Decepticon on top of him, just as Claire landed heavily on the Trans-Organic behind her. She angled her body sideways as she did so, and felt the tear of flesh across her neck as the thing's talons raked bloody welts across her skin. The woman tumbled away, saved by the Trans-Organics instinctual need to cushion his fall. Both hands released her, moving behind him to brace his landing – but instead he touched the bare wire instead.

Unfortunately, the same was true for Smokescreen.

Naturally, Smokescreen's large limb shot out to catch his own loss of balance. The radius of electrical fire created by the wire was large enough to extend to them both, and the results were instantaneous.

Claire's vision exploded. She hung in the moment, balling up into a fetal position that ultimately saved her life. Her body tumbled away, the wind rushed past her ears, and she kept abreast of the infernal heat nipping at her heels. She wished she could be anywhere else but in that moment, but she could not stop the universe from rolling forwards just like she could not stop her body from rolling along.

There was no breath, nothing but abrasion from below and heat, heat, _heat_ –

She came to a stop. A burst of dust shot sideways from where her body landed, and she slowly turned her head to avoid jarring her throbbing cranium any further. Her heart hurt with every beat it took, and she realized that blood was seeping down her collarbone in red rivulets. A weak hand rose, fluttered about the damage on her throat, and then fell back to the ground. The gashes were possibly terminal, and she would bleed to death if the flow of blood was not staunched quickly.

A raging inferno had spread on the spot where Smokescreen lay, and Simon's killer was nowhere to be seen. She caught sight of a dark squad car peeling out of the ruined remains of electrical lines, as well as the sound of a jet's distant screams.

They left?

Refusing to think about it too much, Claire just thanked her lucky stars. Panic loomed over the backside of her brain, and she shrugged her soiled shirt off in haste. Down to just a bra, the woman turned the article of clothing inside out. Both sides were filthy, but the reverse side was less so. Claire wrapped the shirt around her throat like a dirty scarf and tied the sleeves at the nape of her neck. The air was even hotter on her exposed midriff, but she hardly took note. Once the shirt was secure, she began her approach on Smokescreen.

Smoke and burns blackened his exterior, and he lay in a crumpled heap surrounded by small fires. The live wire that had toasted him had jumped on contact, and now lay several meters away. It was still going off, as if daring its next victim to get close – Claire gave it ample room.

"**Smokescreen!**" she called, getting as close to his body as possible. He was surrounded by a halo of fires, none of which she could cross without risking third degree burns. As it stood, she already had several first degree burns that could easily deteriorate further.

No response.

"C'mon, Smokescreen, _wake up_!" Claire cupped both of her hands to her face to amplify her voice. When this too had no effect, she walked the loop of the fire's radius, attempting to catch his attention from different angles. She would have run, but her body could not take much more. It was already pressed beyond exhaustion, and frankly she was surprised she was even standing.

_Damnit_.

He was made of metal, but he was not impervious to flame. Near his feet, his exterior had peeled away, revealing curling flakes of automobile paint and ash. He was turning a sooty white-gray color as the fire consumed whatever was first burnable. His eyes were no longer lit, and he just lay there – Claire's despair grew, and she wrung her hands helplessly. She could not get to him, could not put the flames out, and the police were advancing.

Throwing a shaky look over her shoulder, her eyes confirmed what her mind would not. The local law enforcement was nearly upon her. There was a smattering of F.B.I. agents amongst them as well, and god only knew what they would do with Smokescreen's body. The only small relief she could feel was from the sight of the fire trucks pulling through the entrance to the power grid from the right. Firemen were disentangling hoses, readying the nozzles for a water battle.

"Ma'am?" a concerned voice inquired, pulling her attention to the face of a young police officer in a pressed uniform. Beside him stood a taller man with a goatee, most likely his superior. Others worked around them, hustling to and fro as they carried out their duties. Oddly, none of them seemed to hold panic or concern over what exactly caused the destruction. They were the perfect vision of professionalism, moving with purpose and intent.

It was almost as if this was not at all new to them.

Claire mumbled something, unsure of what she said. Vertigo pressed down on her from all sides, surrounding her with the need to lay down. It was from blood loss, no doubt, but all her glassy eyes reflected was the image of Smokescreen.

"Ma'am," the older man tried, stepping ahead of the younger officer. "You need to get examined. We have an ambulance waiting… please follow me." The man with the goatee took her by the shoulders, turning her to the correct path of the waiting dispatch. Claire fought him tiredly, attempting to keep her vision on Smokescreen. Like the other people working around them, both men acted like he was not even there. He was a large shape dominating the downed power lines, but she remained a focal point of concern instead. It didn't make sense.

"Please, no, you have to … you have to put out the fire … help him."

"Help who?" the officer asked.

She threw a lifeless look to Smokescreen. Could they not see? Were they blind? He could be dead! Claire had refused to think it before, but now that she was aware of this real possibility – well, all she could feel was a staunch dread. It spread over her limbs, a cold gloom that doused the pain of her burns and made her go numb. _No_. He couldn't be dead. He just _couldn't_. What would she do? He had turned into some kind of crazy companion. Sure, the Autobot had been a real jerk to her on more than one occasion, but he didn't deserve this end. Not this.

It seemed surreal, an impossibility made definitely possible by the slip of a second.

"N-no," she muttered, putting more effort into her attempts to turn around. Dimly, she became aware that it was quite possible she was shell-shocked.

"Ma'am," the taller officer warned more firmly.

"I will go with her," a new voice intervened, turning three sets of surprised eyes on the speaker.

Claire's hearing was decidedly sadistic. She thought she heard Smokescreen in that deep voice. Instead, she saw Simon. He walked up to their small cluster with a mismatched gait that was likely an effect of his injuries in the blast.

_Wait… how did he survive that?_ her muzzy mind pondered. He _should_ have been incinerated upon contact with the wire.

"G-g-get him away from me," she chattered, stumbling backwards. One of her hands came up, and pressed itself into the cushion of her cheek. _Stupid_, she told herself. She had forgotten that the Trans-Organic was still possibly around. It could be a costly mistake to make the assumption a second time, and she vowed not to.

"Who are you?" demanded the younger police officer. His brow furrowed at Claire's reaction, therefore instilling his own with suspicion and distrust.

"I'm…" the man trailed, and again Claire heard Smokescreen. The young woman blinked rapidly, flitting her gaze all over his face in order to find the origin of the voice. It couldn't be coming from the Trans-Organic's mouth, after all. A wild look over to Smokescreen's immobile body made her feel awash with even more content – the firemen were spraying the area down, and he was no longer burning.

Two accusing eyes darted back to the creature that wore Simon's face.

"I'm Simon Walters. We used to be married," he supplied with a finish. "I was here with her when this all happened, and we got separated in the chaos."

_Oh, god._

It was _definitely_ Smokescreen's voice.

Claire appraised him with unconcealed awe, wondering if it was just another trick of the Trans-Organic to mimic the voices of others. She would be inclined to believe that, had she not noted the awkward way the man stood, or the way he breathed too fast when speaking – _as if he did not know how to moderate his intake of air_.

Smokescreen would not know these things, being a robot. As it stood, as _he_ stood, he seemed very awkward with himself. He was burned badly in spots, but nothing extensive. It was mind-blowing that his physical form had somehow withstood melting into a bubbling soup of flesh and metal after the explosion, and she could not conceive how that was so.

There was a moment of intense silence, and then both of the officers looked to her. "Is this true, ma'am? Do you know this man?" She felt the fingers of the older officer's hands on her shoulders tense and then relax. He was doubtful, but so was she.

Her mouth moved, but no words came. She hadn't realized just how chapped her lips were until then. Her pupils had dilated to such a size that they nearly swallowed the gray iris that circled them. She saw, she heard, but she could not believe.

It was too much – it was just too damn much. Her body had been put through too much stress, and her mind was in complete upheaval. She felt her brain begin to shut down, and the last thing she heard was Smokescreen speaking through Simon's body. An alien robot, occupying the physical manifestation of her ex-husband – it was like a bad sci-fi movie -

- and she was smack dab in the middle of it.

"She needs medical attention," Smokescreen-as-Simon said.

Claire blanked out, with one crucial, nagging thought occupying her last moments of consciousness.

_How..?_

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** Uh-oh. Now Claire has to deal with Smokescreen in Simon's body. It's bad enough to have to hang around your ex-husband, but now she has to deal with the fact that a transformer happens to look just like him.

I'm working on getting a picture done of Smokescreen and Claire 'meeting' for the first time in the desert (when she first wakes up after being attacked by her Trans-Organic look-alike). It should be done this weekend. This will be my last update until after I move, so expect updates to begin again in late April. Sorry, guys! Thanks for your support and reviews!

* * *


	16. Chapter 16

**The Human Stain: Chapter 16**

_You and I got something  
But it's all and then it's nothing to me  
Yeah  
And I got my defenses  
When it comes to your intentions for me  
Yeah  
And we wake up in the breakdown  
Of the things we never thought we could be  
Yeah_

_**-Goo Goo Dolls, Here is Gone**_

* * *

_White_.

The first thing her mind attached itself to was the incredible whiteness her vision presented. There were a few grainy outlines to mark things separately from one another, to distinguish one object from the next, but they had all one thing in common.

_So white…_

Was she dead? Had she gone to heaven?

Her head lolled sideways across a soft surface – a pillow – and she realized she was lying with her back to a bed. A sharp pain hit her nervous system by doing this, and it confused her as to why this was so. The room came into clearer focus as her eyes adjusted, giving her better insight into her surroundings. There was a door across the room with a small, vertical window in it. Flickers of color passed by this aperture in the door, and she knew there was a hallway beyond it. A window was just to the right of the exit, and sunlight beamed through the glass. A table was next, as well as a low metal stool with rolling wheels. A steady hum to her right pulled her eyes to the source of the sound.

An ECG machine was at her bedside, monitoring her vital signs. Her recent escapades popped clearly into the forefront of her brain, and her left hand fluttered to her throat.

It was wrapped and stiff. By twisting her head slightly, she could feel the resistance of stitches pulling against her skin.

"Claire," Smokescreen's voice said.

Heaven? Hardly. She was definitely in hell.

Wincing, the woman used her peripheral vision to ascertain there was indeed a figure to her left. She moved her head slowly, movements made careful now by the knowledge of her stitches.

His face was slightly blurred, still fuzzy from her weak focus – for a moment she saw a man with dark hair and she could pretend it was Smokescreen's hologram form. It was the only similarity that Simon and Smokescreen shared, after all.

But, no.

He came into plain focus much too early, and she cringed at the sight of Simon's features on a man that was not Simon. He was standing some feet from her hospital bed, hands in the pockets of his pants. When he saw he had been acknowledged, he began to advance.

"Don't!" her voice cracked in protest. "Stay away!" Her right hand groped within the limits of its leash – it was hooked up via lines to the ECG machine. Unfortunately, she could not find the patient call button that alerted a nurse. Where the hell was it?

"Claire, it's me." He was speaking in that strangely inflected voice again, as if he couldn't coordinate his words with his respiration.

"Like hell it is," she spat back, groping restlessly with her left hand along the metal bed frame. Leave it up to the hospital to keep those call buttons insidiously hidden in case emergency situations like the one she happened to be in cropped up. In the far reaches of her mind, she held the deeply imbedded knowledge that it was Smokescreen, but she wasn't ready to face that yet. She would never be ready, really – thus she kept denying what she knew to be true.

"What do I need to do to prove it to you? Do I need to give you details of the truce we made?"

She opened her mouth, swallowed thickly, and then shut it. _Damn._

He held his hands out before them, staring at them as if they were rather curious. Truthfully, they most likely were quite curious to him.

"How.. how did.." she stuttered, willing her mind to process the truth.

"I am .. not sure," he admitted, still staring cautiously at his human hands. He turned them over back and forth, and then held them closely to his face as if investigating the whorls at his fingertips. "I remember fighting Barricade and Starscream, and then I was pushed back… and the rest… I was thrown from the spot. When I came back online, I was not in my body anymore."

"Barricade? Starscream?"

He nodded, and returned his steady gaze to her impatiently. She got the feeling this was not a subject of concern for him, and he was rather irritated by the change of subject. "The flying Decepticon was Starscream and the land-based Decepticon was Barricade."

It blew her mind that he knew their names - that they had names. He must have run into them before, on some other world. She wasn't quite sure why, but it annoyed her that she knew so very little beyond the boundaries of everyday human affairs. There appeared to be so much more happening elsewhere, but human limitations trapped her in the headlines of Earthly endeavors. Humans were simply not ready to focus on something much greater than themselves.

The sudden realization was just a mite depressing.

She moved to jar the somber thoughts from her head, or at least to ignore them for now. Her body ached in protest, sparking landmines in her head. She swung sideways on one hip, but met resistance in the form of the tubes attached to her body. Disgusted, she began to rip the electrodes off a section of skin just below her collarbone.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice rising in alarm.

"Getting out of here. What does it look like?" she snapped back.

"You can't just…"

"Watch me."

She was pissed now. Not just pissed at the world and her current state of affairs (which she had every right to be), but the fact that Smokescreen was inhabiting her ex-husband's body. Okay, maybe not his body _per se_ (that was well and truly dead), but his physical manifestation. That was the proverbial cherry topping her cow-pie of a life, and it stunk more than she could bear.

A hand stilled her progress, just as her own hand draped itself across the second electrode above her heart.

He touched her hand.

He was _touching_ her.

Her lips parted in shock and she stared dumbfounded at the hand atop hers. Beneath the double stack of their palms, her heart sped up and the jumpy scrawl on the ECG machine did likewise.

Claire slowly lifted her eyes. The warmth radiating from Smokescreen's hand was all too palpable, all too _human_ – and therein was the problem - he _wasn't_.

He was returning her gaze, looking just as surprised as she. The consciousness swirling beneath the brown eyes was neither Simon's nor that of a stranger. It was Smokescreen's, no matter how much her mind denied it. He was looking at her in a new way, almost as if he had never really seen her before. His eyes traced the features of her face – the slope of her nose, the line of her jaw – and she watched him do it.

They stood like that as the moments marched by, until Smokescreen began to lean a little too close for comfort. His face – Simon's face – was mere inches from her own when she realized how little personal space was between them. His eyes began to close in increments, just as hers widened.

Claire moved first, jerking away. Her hand rose quickly from her chest, effectively batting his aside. Her eye frantically searched the room for an escape. _Oh god, was he about to kiss me?_

Smokescreen seemed to snap out his strange stupor, and stepped back. Claire desperately patted about the bed like a blind woman in search of that pesky call button. She cleared her throat. "Uh… I need a phone. I need to call work."

Smokescreen blinked rapidly, looking all too quixotic for her tastes. He attempted to speak, failed, and tried again. Claire bet he hadn't been affected by a loss of vocal capabilities before, and it showed. "I'll notify someone."

He turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him. His retreating footsteps echoed down the hollow hallway beyond, and Claire flopped back upon her pillow with a rush of pent-up air. She hadn't realized she had been holding her breath.

Smokescreen had hovered over her bedside just a few moments earlier, looking all too much like Simon – and yet not. He had closed his eyes and bent his face for hers and –

_No._

The one word echoed firmly in her mind, reaffirming her blatant objection to the possibility. If he was really Smokescreen, he was just an alien robot. It was all her fault, really. She had started to let her guard slip when she began referring him – _it_ – as being male. It was only a regression of reason from there that lead her to even entertain her confusing attraction to his holographic form.

_I mean, who wouldn't be attracted to that hologram? He was hot!_

She groaned, and put a hand to her head. It was thoughts like those that got her in situations like these. Why in the world would a robotic alien wrapped up in the guise of her ex-husband want to kiss her for? She must have imagined it.

Unless…

A red flush sprang forth to stain her skin a bright hue. It rushed upwards, causing her cheeks to burn.

Of course, the _memories_.

Trans-Organics likely had the ability to assume their victim's memories. That only meant that Smokescreen had access to every single memory that Simon ever had of Claire, _including_ the intimate ones.

Hoo-boy.

She renewed her endeavor to detach herself from the monitoring equipment in earnest.

Claire's fingers ripped at the electrodes on her body, casting them aside the moment they were removed. She was such an idiot, such a frigging moron. She would die of mortification if he returned to the room and she was still occupying it. Had anyone ever died of embarrassment before? It was an oft-used cliché, so perhaps there was a grain of truth to it.

She didn't want to test it, personally. Up until now she had somehow stayed alive despite invading extraterrestrials the size of skyscrapers. It would just seem, _hm_, a bit anti-climatic to die of something as simple as her own embarrassment after all that.

Once the last electrode was removed, Claire cast the bedsheet covering her form aside and turned herself so that her feet touched the linoleum floor. They had left her prosthetic on, which was a bit strange. The press of her skin against the hard surface was refreshing, and it helped stay the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. Taking a deep breath, the woman pushed herself upright and stood with one hand on the bed for support. She was garbed in a patient's gown, white to match the room. Her eyes appraised the contents of the room, seeking her clothes. When her search came up empty, she realized that they must have disposed of her garments – they were hardly fit to be called clothes after that last encounter with the Decepticons.

_Damn it_. She would just have to make her escape insane-asylum style, hospital gown and all.

Creeping to the door and attempting to keep her prosthetic from making too much noise at the same time, Claire hesitated long enough to listen for sounds from the hallway. She was escaping because A) Smokescreen knew what she looked like naked and B) she was still clinging to the fear that it really wasn't Smokescreen at all, but the Trans-Organic playing her for a fool. Reason B was more a cover for Reason A, as she couldn't really believe Reason B but it would make a good excuse later if she was cornered for answers to her actions. The option to stay was really no option at all.

After a long stream of silence, Claire made her move. Her hand twisted the doorknob quietly, and she opened the door wide enough so that she might slip through. There was a tension lining her shoulders that had nothing to do with her injuries, but she ignored it. Peering into the hallway reassured her that there was no one present and she snuck forward. It was rather difficult to keep her prosthetic from making too many sounds as she moved – she was resigned to keeping her pace unfortunately slow. The hospital's corridor was rather narrow, lined with rolling tray tables and other miscellaneous items that made it even smaller. Claire kept one hand to the wall, steadying herself with every step she took. This was not where she envisioned herself to be after last night, but her plans never took the form she wanted them to. She should have been used to that by now.

_Voices._

They were faint, perhaps on the other end of an adjoining hallway just ahead. Male and female, definitely. As they rose in strength, Claire could register the male's as Smokescreen's voice and the female as unknown. A nurse? Nevermind, it didn't matter. She pivoted in one fluid motion despite her downtrodden state, and began to slink away in the direction she had come. Claire moved faster than before, ignoring the telling echo of her prosthetic on the linoleum.

There was a missed beat in the conversation, and Claire knew _he_ knew that she was out of her room. Smokescreen might have been reduced to a hybrid state of robotics, but he still had the capacity to do things beyond human ability – and that included hearing.

_Shit._

Desperate to remove herself from the hallway, Claire panicked and ducked back into the room she had just vacated. It was decided then that she was really, really bad at escaping hospitals.

Granted, she was somewhat the amateur. It wasn't like she had done this sort of thing before.

The pair of footfalls sped up, and she had enough mental faculties to close the door behind her. She had just made it to her bed when the door reopened. Claire was immediately joined by a short blonde woman and Smokescreen-as-Simon.

The blonde was somewhat chubby, but young. Her thin, straight hair was pulled tightly back from a heart-shaped face that scowled with disapproval at Claire. Just beyond her, Smokescreen mirrored her facial expression.

"Ms. Walters, why are you sitting up?"

Claire was perched on the edge of her bed, devoid of electrodes and appearing as if she had only recently removed them. The nurse seemed oblivious to the fact that she had done more than that.

Good.

"Uh… sorry, they itched," Claire offered lamely.

The shorter woman huffed as if that was just another recycled excuse she was tired of hearing, but heard far too often. "Ms. Walters, you cannot just…"

"Claire, please get back into bed." It was Smokescreen. His brow was furrowed low above his eyes, and his voice held a command that was meant to brook no argument. He had most likely heard her out in the hallway, or he wouldn't have arrived so quickly. He wasn't telling the nurse, however.

_Why?_

Forgetting the fact that she would feel more than mortified upon facing him again, Claire let her irritation rise to the fore. "I'm fine, really." She crossed her arms over her chest as if to prove that point.

Smokescreen's dark look only became blacker. "Claire…" he warned.

"Here, let me reattach these," the nurse cut in, obviously uncomfortable with the battle of wills the two demonstrated. She hovered over Claire like a flitting hummingbird and eased the taller woman back into the hospital bed before reattaching the electrodes. She chastised Claire like a child all the while, warning her against attempting the stunt a second time. Blood loss was serious and not to be trifled with and _yadda, yadda, yadda_.

Claire wanted to scream at the nurse, to tell her that shape shifting aliens from another world were serious and not to be trifled with, but somehow she failed to get _that_ particular memo on _that_ particular danger – most notably the one still standing in the doorway. Being warned against blood loss seemed laughable.

But no, she pursed her lips and merely appeared sullen instead. The nurse finished hooking her up like science experiment ready to be tested and stepped back.

_Now I just need Smokescreen to zap me, and we're all set._

The thought coalesced all too suddenly and her eyes widened for it – no, no, she did not need any zapping today. He couldn't zap her anymore, he wasn't a hologram.

Too bad, that. Too damn bad. She would have actually preferred the hologram to the material version of Smokescreen. Why the hell did he have to look like Simon, of all people?

Oh, right. God was laughing at her – she almost forgot she was his living, breathing cosmic joke. Good one, God!

"Are you going to stay with your wife much longer, Mr. Walters?" the nurse inquired, turning for the door. "You should watch her as long as you can. Speak to the nurse on duty when you feel like stepping out so we can keep an eye on her."

Claire paled. The short blonde chick thought she was _married_ to Smokescreen. Ye Gods. It was slightly understandable, as they did share the same last name. Still, hadn't anyone informed her?

Smokescreen swallowed a laugh, and Claire shot him a peevish glare. "I will do that, thank you."

_What?! He didn't even bother to correct her?_

"If you need a phone, there's one to your right." The nurse paused, thought better of leaving, and walked around Claire's bed to a half-drawn curtain. She pulled it away, revealing an extension of the room Claire had failed to notice. Not three feet away to her right was a phone sitting atop a small table. "This room is capable of holding two patients, so I can understand how the phone might be missed."

"Actually," Claire began, "I'd like to clear up one thing…"

"I would have missed seeing the phone too if I had been in your place," the woman smiled. The nurse was no longer on edge, seemingly mollified by the fact that Smokescreen would be watching his wayward 'wife' once she left.

"No, it's not…"

"Thank you for your assistance," Smokescreen smiled, moving forward with a strange sort of affability.

"Anytime," grinned the blonde woman, moving for the door. "If you need anything, just hit the button over Ms. Walters' head."

Claire glanced directly up. Oh, hell. There it was. One big button, positioned within easy reach on the wall. She comforted herself by thinking it was a rather stupid place to put a call button.

With that, the nurse was gone. An uncomfortable silence settled between Claire and Smokescreen. Claire still hadn't uncrossed her arms from across her chest, and when Smokescreen's line of sight began to creep below her chin she decided it was a good thing.

"What are you looking at!?" she snapped irritably, unsure of how to handle the fact that he had full knowledge of every single thing she had ever shared or done with Simon.

"I was looking at your neck wound. The nurse said it wasn't deep." He stood halfway between herself and the door, currently immobile.

Claire moved her head down as if to look at the said infliction, but of course she could not. Her hand moved up instead, and fluttered over the stiff stitches. "Oh." She suddenly felt stupid for thinking he was going to look at her chest. But… wouldn't he? Wouldn't he want to?

_Of course not, idiot. He's a robot. They don't have hormones._

Correction: He **was** a robot. Now he was something straddling the fence between human and robot, and she wasn't sure what he felt or knew or wanted or…

"Claire."

Her eyes tore up to meet his. She couldn't help it.

"I…" he started, and then stopped. The corners of his mouth curled downward, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. It wasn't fair, to watch these unfamiliar expressions play across so familiar features. It was like watching a favorite movie she had seen several times before, to know how it was supposed to play out, and then to find one day that one of the main characters had a personality shift. That change inexorably transformed everything, from how the other characters would interact with him, to how the plot ran. They had words for this alteration - a bad sequel.

She was no doubt in one right now.

"Look," she said, lifting her hands as if to illustrate her point. "I don't… well, I suppose I want to know one thing… how did you manage to get stuck in Simon's body?"

"This isn't Simon," he corrected.

"I know, I know, but for simplicity's sake… work with me here. How did you get there?"

"I already explained this to you. I told you all I know."

So he did. She supposed she was just not ready to accept that explanation. "Ok, fine. Question number two… and this is the harder one for me… do you have any of Simon's memories?"

"No."

That answer made her exhale in total relief. _There is a God._

"I have all of them."

Claire froze completely. Maybe she needed to become an atheist after all. "Wh-wh-what?!"

He began to pace, shaking his head as if to clear it. "It's not like I wanted them!" he protested, the first edge of frustration entering his tone. "I had them the first moment I was aware of my surroundings. This… this body…" he stared down at his hands, as if disbelieving they were his own, "this body is nothing I have encountered before. Everything is different. I do not feel connected anymore, I feel alone in my processor…"

The thought struck her as odd. Alone in his processor? Connected? She sat there, attempting to puzzle it out. The only way she could even remotely begin to understand it was likening it to being without a cell phone in the woods – some people would feel alone and out of sorts without a way to contact the outside world in case something bad happened. If this was how he felt without a constant link to the internet, she could rationalize it. It seemed foreboding in a way – what if one day humanity was able to connect to the internet, 24/7? What if they were suddenly severed from that link? Would they feel isolated, lost? The current generation depended heavily upon the internet already; it was only one more step until they were actually linked to it in their minds.

She was worlds away with alien thoughts tumbling through her brain when his voice brought her back into the room. "I do not understand how you humans can deal with this. I cannot… I am alone."

Claire sorted through her mixed feelings and tried to offer a solution. "Have you tried contacting Optimus Prime or any of the other Autobots?"

Smokescreen shook his head. "I feel I have the ability to, but I cannot use it without risking alerting the Decepticons. This primitive processor does have the ability to speak with other Cybertronians, but it is likely not without monitoring."

She felt slightly stung. If he thought that a hybrid human/Cybertronian brain was primitive, he surely wasn't referring to the robotic part as sub-par.

They both stopped speaking after that, and the minutes stretched by. Claire stared up at the ceiling, occasionally glancing at the offending call button on the wall over her head. "So now what?" She was too fixated on their next move that she had completely forgotten about her anxiety over what memories he had retained. It was stupid – trivial even – anyways. There were greater things at stake than her personal dignity.

Smokescreen took a tentative step forward, causing her to lock her eyes with his. They were no longer the vibrant blue of his holographic form, but they were lighter now than Simon's had ever been. They had that lit quality – wholly inhuman, but enticing all the same.

_Whoa, back up._

_Enticing?_ Where had that come from? She must have lost more blood than she had originally thought. Maybe the nurse did have good reason to give her a thorough scolding.

Smokescreen stood by her bedside now, looking down at her with a frown. She wasn't sure she liked the moods and thoughts sliding behind his otherworldly eyes. For the first time, she noticed his irises were ringed with blue on their outermost edge – ah, so not all was lost.

"What are you looking at?" she hedged.

"You."

"…And why would you do that? I look like hell."

"Actually…" he glanced down at himself. He hadn't cleaned himself up, or changed clothes.

"Okay, point taken," she conceded.

He smiled then, the first true smile she had seen on him. It wasn't becoming so discomfiting to see him using Simon's lips to pull it off, either – Simon had never smiled at her like that. He had smirked, grinned, beamed proudly – but he never smiled so genuinely. That action alone made it quite real to her that it was no longer Simon behind those eyes. It might not be something she was ready to accept, but it was a start.

"What are you smiling at?" she asked suspiciously.

"The mark."

"The mark," she repeated, obviously lost.

"You have a mark on your thigh, on the upper part by…"

"_**STOP IT!"**_

"Huh?" he faltered.

"Oh my god, stop it! You're seeing me naked!" Did she just say that?

"I saw everything when I came back online and…"

"So you would concentrate on _**that**_, of all things!?" She was ready to dig her way to China. Her worst fears were just confirmed. Feeling the intense need to retaliate, she reached behind her and chucked her pillow at him. It was flat and hard, anyways.

He caught it squarely between both hands like a pro football player. She should have put his inhuman reflexes into some sort of consideration, but she was just so ... overwhelmed to think clearly.

"I could not stop it. It just came. Everything. It was downloaded to this processor…" he lifted one hand from the pillow and tapped his head, "before I inhabited this body."

"That doesn't mean you can just think of me without clothes!" As if she could ward off any further meandering thoughts of his, Claire gripped the sheets and pulled them to a point just below her chin. She looked and felt like the scandalized heroine in a bad romance novel, and she hated him with every fiber of her being for it. "Stop thinking of me! I know you are thinking about it!" she screeched.

"How am I supposed to do that?" he demanded. He set the pillow behind her head again, and she leaned away from him.

She thought about it a moment, focusing her distraught mind long enough to find a solution – and truthfully, she couldn't. There was no way she could force him to stop thinking about (or, in this case, remembering) something when she had no control over his brain functions. Furthermore, asking him to forget about it would only succeed in making him concentrate on it even more. It was a cache-22. The best she could do was let him forget, or hope he did.

But, dear lord, it was unsettling.

He would see everything in the blink of eye, as that was how memories worked – he could recall them and vanquish them at will, and she had no say in it. He would watch through Simon's eyes everything that Simon remembered. The more chaste things would be their old relationship – the beginning, the middle, the end. The very detailed things would be her honeymoon and every night they had ever had sex.

Claire blanched, suddenly sick to her stomach. Smokescreen would either feel extreme disdain for human coupling (which she pleaded was the case) or the exact opposite…

"Claire? Is something wrong?" Smokescreen asked. He had folded his arms on the left side of her bed, and she found herself scooting as far as she could to the right.

"Give me space. A bubble. Anything."

"A bubble?" he questioned, unfamiliar with the term. He paused as if to research the meaning, but gave a frustrated sigh when he remembered he couldn't. "You'll have to explain your human terminology to me, I seem to be impaired."

"You know, distance! Step back!"

He did, much to her surprise. His expression was guarded, and rightly so. Hers was not much different. They were two different beings, from two different worlds, and now they shared the same damn memories.

She wanted to bury her head in her hands and cry. If he scoured his newfound recollection, he would find that Simon always left her alone when that happened. Maybe he would follow the example.

Pulling her knees up to her face, Claire looped her arms around her legs and hid her face in the circle. There was a pervading silence, and she willed him away with her mind, hoping he would leave her be to her own demons.

He kept proving to be more and more unlike Simon each and every single time. A hand fell to her back, a comforting one, and she knew she should wish it wasn't there.

As the warmth of his palm leaked into the knotted muscles of her back, Claire was chagrined to find that she couldn't.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of Haystack. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** Well, the move was a success, as moves go. It was one long road trip, I'll admit to that! I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out – I really wanted to make it a bit longer, but you guys had waited long enough. This chapter is very… Smokescreen/Claire centric, so I think that will make a lot of you happy! I think things are changing for these two for the better. It's been a long road, for sure.

Thanks for all the reviews you guys have given me in the past! I should be turning out chapters more quickly now, so I'm sure you guys are glad to hear that. I'm going to pause with drawing illustrations for a bit since I still have a few things to do that are leftover from the move.

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

**The Human Stain: Chapter 17**

_Hopelessly  
I feel like there might be something that I'll miss  
Hopelessly  
I feel like the window closes oh so quick  
Hopelessly  
I'm taking a mental picture of you now  
'Cuz hopelessly  
The hope is we have so much to feel good about_

_**OneRepublic, Good Life**_

* * *

_**Spring Valley, Las Vegas**_

* * *

"I must say that I absolutely _**love**_ the patio."

The midday sun was relentlessly baking the southwest Las Vegas suburb of Spring Valley, bringing the heat index to a miserable 112 degrees Fahrenheit. Three people stood under the slate gray slope of a condo as they overlooked a tiny 12'x12' swatch of land that was even more pathetic than the allotment of shade they were receiving.

"It's nice, isn't it?" a woman in a smartly tailored business suit asked rhetorically. She appeared calm, almost verging on bored. A pair of aviators perched atop her head and her brown hair was slicked back into a tight chignon. Despite being Caucasian, she could have easily passed for Hispanic at a distance. Years of sun worship had created deep, thin grooves at the corners of her eyes, something she blamed on her husband and kids and not the tanning bed.

"It's just a great property," the third one of their group stated. He was a tall man of angular features and a roman nose, most likely of Greek descent. His blonde wife made a quick spin on her left heel and clapped her small hands together once in delight. "What do you think, Bo? I love the sense of community, the layout, everything!"

The olive-skinned real estate agent bit her lip and refrained from making a sarcastic quip about the "sense of community" remark. It was a condo in a gated community, near Spanish Trail Golf and Country Club. The condos were lavish but monotonous on a street that had them lined up like Spanish mausoleums. They were all adobe, all bone-white, and the occupants consisted overwhelmingly of retirees. It was like the fabled Elephant Graveyard in the movie The Lion King. People didn't move in here with families in order to live – no - they came to die.

Jennifer Bateman understood the concept of dying a little too well. She had a bad string of luck with her family passing away lately. It wasn't her immediate family, thank god – she wouldn't know what to do if she lost Ted and the kids. Her mother had finally succumbed to early Alzheimer's last January with an uncle preceding that in far too short a succession. The housing market was also sluggish, most likely vying for a dip, and she was still scrambling with her brother Michael to pay off what was owed for her mom's funeral. Her father had long ago left her life, shortly after a childhood accident that had claimed a friend's limb. There was even an old, morbid joke that still persisted amongst herself and the attack victim.

It was the day that everyone involved "jumped the shark", so to speak.

Claire lost the most, honestly, and it wasn't just her leg. She lost her drive in life, her humor, and became a darker shadow of her former self. Simon, her rescuer, entered her life and left it. Jen, as she was known then, had noticed the change first in Claire. Jen's parents' marriage had been on the rocks for some time up until then, or so her mother insisted. About a week after the attack, Jen's father split and left town for his own reasons. Jen's father had held a high profile government job and his absence put herself, her younger brother and mother into near poverty. Jen's mother found a note from her father the day he left, saying he had fallen in love with someone else. It also stressed that they not look for him.

They never saw him again.

It signaled the end of an era for two friends who had shared everything from 2nd grade on. Claire fell into her own pain and self-pity while Jen did much the same. They drew apart, talked infrequently, and then as Claire physically healed she spent most of her days with her new boyfriend, Simon. The local press followed the pair for a while, leaving Jen looking on. There was some bitterness there, perhaps, but Jen never voiced it.

Her cell cut her reverie short by buzzing in the purse at her side.

Jarred to the present, Jennifer reached into the depths of her Louis Vuitton to retrieve the offending object. She snapped it open with a flick of her perfectly manicured nails and put it to the shell of her ear. "Jennifer Bateman here."

"Jen…?" came a small voice from the other end.

One of Ms. Bateman's eyebrows arched curiously. "I'm sorry, who m am I speaking to?" Always the consummate professional, Jennifer never wavered even when a niggling sense of dread crept up her spine. The voice was familiar, and she didn't use the name Jen anymore. Not since… well. Not since jumping the shark all those years ago.

Jennifer's two clients had since lost their fascination for the sorry piece of backyard they thought so wonderful and were now eying her expectantly.

"Jen, this is Claire."

She almost dropped the phone, almost. She hadn't heard from Claire in what, 3 years? It sure was a hell of a long time. Jennifer had gone on to a respectable college, cool and confident in her determination to make a career woman out of herself. The last she heard, Claire was mixing paint for people at a nameless box store somewhere nearby. Jennifer had moved to Las Vegas a few years back after her husband found a new job. Although she was aware Claire might be in the same general vicinity, she never actually put herself in contact with her old friend.

A minute shaking shattered her resolute calm. It started in her fingers, travelled down her hand, but was squashed at the elbow as Jen set her other arm horizontally across her chest and rested the back of her freehand under the arm gripping the phone. "Well, I have to say I'm surprised to hear from you. Is something wrong?"

The couple in front of her shifted from foot to foot, looking impatiently from Jennifer to the rest of the property. When Jennifer caught the blonde woman's eye with her steely gaze – Cathy, was it? –the other female dropped her gaze and feigned an intense interest in a rough looking scrub brush bordering the edge of the condo.

"Is this a bad time?" Claire asked feebly. She sounded weak.

"I'm showing a property. Can I get back to you?" Jennifer clipped before inwardly admonishing herself for being so short.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt..."

"You never do, Claire."

The line went mute for a few seconds. Another sting.

"I mean, I didn't…"

"It's okay; I'll call you back in half an hour."

Claire hastily threw out a number that wasn't her cell phone, which Jennifer took down. She _despised_ taking phone calls in front of clients. It threw her stride off, made her look bad, and told the people she was working with that they weren't her sole prerogative at the time. She had worked so hard to get where she was at the moment – self-sufficiency was really the only thing that helped her survive the break-up her family and the loss of her best friend all those years ago. To have Claire call her now dissolved her self-control and made her unsure. She hated being unsure.

"Looks like a storm is coming" the husband remarked appraisingly. The couple was all but looking at her.

The sun still beat down hotly, but in the distance a storm was rolling in. The heat still shimmered at the horizon line as before, breaking up the visual continuity of structures behind it. They all watched as a flash of lightning, lost and lonely, arced across the sky and blurred as it struck somewhere along the ground.

"Let's go back inside," she heard herself saying. Her voice was automatous and detached, not her own. The couple took her cue and filed in an orderly fashion behind her as she turned for the sliding doors to the condo.

If there was one thing Jen had learned all those years ago, it was that it was always safer to be inside.

* * *

Claire lowered her new phone. It was a pay-as-you-go deal, the cheap kind that was easily purchased at mobile kiosks and Best Buys nationwide. Smokescreen-as-Simon had suggested she ditch her old phone in order to keep the possibility of being tracked lower.

"She sounded surprised to hear from me," she murmured. This in turn surprised _her_.

Claire had since left the hospital after a day or two of rest. She had been heavily battered and bruised. Nothing was broken, thankfully, but she nearly sprained her one good ankle. Her eyes moved over her surroundings, taking in the dark 70's paneling and the mauve carpeting that hadn't been switched out in over a decade. She was currently in another old motel, a roadside rest stop dedicated to the glory days when families took road trips in wooden station wagons.

_It would be nice to stay in a modern motel for once._

Musing over these wishful thoughts a few moments more, Claire couldn't keep herself from pushing herself up on her elbows. She had been laying prone on one of the double beds in the room, adjusting her eyesight to the stretching shadows that announced that dusk was near. She heard the front door to the hotel room, and suddenly Smokescreen was there. He was by her bedside faster than she could see him move. He gazed down at her, silent in his regard.

Claire stared back, mouth dry.

Thankfully, she didn't have to spend too much time pondering what she would say as a metal sound and a loud buzz that broke through the awkward silence.

"_**Hey!"**_ exclaimed the woman, shocked. To her further fright, the bed began to move from under her. "_…_" her teeth chattered. She was uncomfortably jarred left and right as the bed vibrated like an oversized cell phone.

Casting a frenetic glance upwards and over to the autobot in sheep's clothing, Claire gritted her teeth.

Smokescreen looked at her blandly. "What are you doing?" His voice was mild, nearly impish.

"_Shhhhuuttt itttttt ooofffffff….._" she garbled, slapping the covers for a remote or an off switch – anything – with the flat of her hand. Failing that, she gave a great show of effort by ignoring the dull pain wracking her body and shoved off the bed entirely so that she was merely a discombobulated heap on the dingy carpet.

The bed continued its epileptic fit, heedless of its lack of occupants. Claire glanced up and over to a small, golden box mounted to the nightstand above her head.

It read: **FOR YOUR COMFORT AND RELAXATION, THIS BED IS EQUIPPED WITH THE SAME MAGIC FINGERS RELAXATION SERVICE.**

For 25 cents she could enjoy 15 minutes of pure, jostled bliss. Smokescreen had made sure of that.

"**What. The. Hell. Was. That. For,**" she bit out.

"You've been lying around too much," he simply replied, cracking a smirk that was eerily familiar.

"Jerk. Don't do that again. I'm injured, remember?"

"You seem fine enough to get angry."

She shot him a withering look that clearly told him to die. Unfortunately, he just ignored it.

"We need to get move. We can't stay here." His tone had gone serious. The autobot uncrossed his arms, offering one to her.

Claire stared at the proffered limb, eyes going glassy. She had been saved by that hand more than once. She was hit again by the realization that Simon was truly gone. He wasn't always the best personality, perhaps, but he didn't deserve to die.

A phone rang then, louder than the hum of the bucking bed. It was Claire's cell phone. Jen was likely calling her back.

Shooting one last glare Smokescreen's way, she pushed aside his proffered limb and stood up herself. Turning slightly, she glanced this way and that for the cell phone. It had fallen onto the floor when the bed had started jumping about and landed somewhere in the dark space between the particleboard nightstand and bed. Groaning, the woman reached into the space while she prayed against finding old condoms and spider webs.

Luckily, the only thing her hand found was the phone. Releasing a sigh of relief that she didn't know she had been holding, Claire flicked the phone open and put it to her ear without checking the caller ID on the front as she stood up. She already knew who it might be.

"Claire?" Jen's voice floated over the distance and into her present.

"I'm here," she ascertained, glancing down the length of her body. _Barely._

"Sorry, it's hard to hear you. There's a drone on your end. Here, let me turn up my speakers."

Claire made a scathing sound and shot a murderous look Smokescreen's way. He merely shrugged and turned away impatiently, marching back outside.

"It's one of those vibrating beds," Claire responded, voice raised. She scuttled over to the bathroom at the far end of the motel room and shut the thin door after her. "Can you hear me better now? I'm at a motel."

"That's better. Claire, why are you in a motel? Where are you?"

"Near Tranquility. In Nevada."

"Why did you call?"

"To tell you about Simon. Look, I'm sorry. He just showed up at my doorstep and…"

Jen's next words left her speechless. "Oh my god, are you two getting back together! "

"N-N-no!" Claire sputtered, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder. She hoped Smokescreen wasn't listening. "I'm just calling to tell you where he is. _Was_. I mean was."

"Why do you want to tell me this?" Jen's excitement was petering out, turning into suspicion.

"Well, since you guys were dating I thought…"

Jen's voice interrupted her flatly. "Claire, we aren't dating. We never did. I've been married for awhile now. I have two kids, for god's sake. Who told you that?"

Claire felt like someone had pulled the ground out from beneath her feet. Her face paled before her fingers found the edges of her mouth. The woman's digits flutter in front of half parted lips which are agape in bewilderment.

"Well… _you_ did."

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.

**A/N:** WELL. Probably thought I died, huh? I wrote another chapter. Not as long as the others, but it's something! I have had so many messages on this story that I thought it should at least get an update. I'm getting married in a couple weeks and going on a two week vacation, so I can't believe I ever found the time to do this.

**The Greatest Boba Fett Fan:** Oddly enough, you posted your comment just as I was about to finish the chapter. Glad you kept up with this. I'm also happy to finally update it for you! I will keep trying to update after the wedding, most likely in October.

**Shadow Dice:** I didn't forget you! I just haven't checked my messages all year until the last few days. Thankyouthankyou for sending that back in May. I'm sorry I didn't reply until now. It was a very nice review and I'm glad you do not think this a Mary Sue. I'm working on keeping it as far from that as possible! I bet you and a few others thought I was going off track when I started in with Jen's piece. What, she's married! I thought she was dating Simon! Well, there goes that… nope! I have the plot to this story already planned out in my head. I just have to keep up with writing it out.

To everyone else, thank you for your support and I am sorry I have been on hiatus. I'll work on getting back to this in October. Thanks again!


End file.
